CONTEMPORARY 
/ERSE  ANTHOLOGY 

1916"  I020 


"U» 


CONTEMPORARY  VERSE  ANTHOLOGY 


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CONTEMPORARY 
VERSE   ANTHOLOGY 

Favorite  Poems  Selected  from  the  Magazine 

"CONTEMPORARY  VERSE" 

1916—1920 

With  an  Introduction 

By 
CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,   1920,   by  E.   P.   Dutton  &   Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


»> 

."■    :  .:.-.,• 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To  our  loyal  Contributors  who  have 
made  possible  this  Volume;  and  to 
all  other  Americans  who  believe  in 
Poetry  as  the  Expression  of  Life. 


/ 


451363 


We  gratefully  acknowledge  our  indebtedness  to  the 
publishers  in  whose  books  some  of  the  poems  included 
in  Contemporary  Verse  Anthology  have  appeared: — 

The  Cornhill  Company — Gargoyles,  by  Howard 
Mumford  Jones. 

George   H.   Doran   Company — Songs  from  the 
Journey,  by  Wilton  Agnew  Barrett. 

Poems,     Essays 
and  Letters  of  Joyce  Kilmer. 

E.  P.  Dutton  and  Company — The  Earth  Turns 
South,  by  Clement  Wood. 

Houghton    Mifflin    Company — Rhymes   of   a 
Homesteader,  by  Elliott  C.  Lincoln. 

B.  W.  Huebsch — Hesitant  Heart,  by  Winifred 
Welles. 

John  Lane  Company — Tropical  Town,  by  Salo- 
mon de  la  Selva. 

Little  Book  Publishers — Streets  and  Faces,  by 
Scudder  Middleton. 

The  Macmillan  Company — Bluestone,  by  Mar- 
guerite Wilkinson. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons — Dust  and  Light,  by 
John  Hall  Wheelock. 

James  T.  White — The  Final  Star,  by  Marion 
Couthouy  Smith. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

An  Invocation DuBose  Hey  ward  1 

To-day Amory  Hare  2 

^Three  Poems Karle  Wilson  Baker 

I  Love  the  Friendly  Faces  of  Old  Sorrows.  .  4 

Death  the  Highwayman 5 

Morning  Song 6 

The  American » Louis  Untermeyer  7 

What  If  the  Lapse  of  Ages  Were  a  Dream? 

Stephen  Moylan  Bird  10 

The  Anchor William  Laird  12 

Defeat Glenn  Ward  Dresbach  14 

The  Two  Drinkers  (From  the  French  of  Charles 

Vildrac)  Witter  Bynner  15 

Gold-in-Gray Robert  Gilbert  Welsh  17 

Echoes Ruth  Lambert  Jones  19 

Won  By  Ear Daniel  W.  Troy  20 

"Shine!" Amory  Hare  21 

Pier  6 Francis  T.  Kimball  23 

The  Watchman Miriam  Vedder  25 

God's  Pity Louise  Driscoll  26 

Make  Believe Helen  Hoyt  27 

Patchwork Mary  Willis  Shuey  28 

A  Song  of  Butte Howard  Mum] or d  Jones  30 

Land  of  the  Free.  .  .Gertrude  Cornwell  Hopkins  34 

The  Poem Clement  Wood  35 

The  Bird Caroline  Stern  39 

Chains Glenn  Ward  Dresbach  40 


Vll 


Contents 


Distance Margaret  E.  McCallie  41 

The  Day  That  Love  Came  Down  to  Me. 

Haniel  Long  42 

A  Song  of  Piekrot Maurice  A.  Hanline  43 

The  Unforgiven Nancy  Barr  Mavity  45 

The  Door Mary  Carolyn  Davies  46 

Inviolate Marx  G.  Sabel  47 

"Les  Latjriers  Sont  Coupes" Elinor  Wylie  48 

Certitude Helen,  Hoyt  49 

By  the  Hearth Amory  Hare  51 

Silenced Willard  Wattles  53 

To  You Beatrice  W.  Ravenel  54 

Contrasts Marie  Louise  Hersey  55 

My  Mother E.  Merrill  Root  56 

Return  After  Death John  Hall  Wheelock  58 

In  An  Old  House Winifred  Welles  61 

The  Ruined  'Dobe Jennie  Harris  Oliver  63 

The  Return Scudder  Middleton  65 

February  Twenty-Second. 

Raymond  Peckham  Holden  66 

The  Man  at  the  Plow Ruthele  Novak  67 

I  Stood  at  Twilight Berenice  K.  Van  Slyke  68 

The  Push-Cart William  Rose  Benet  69 

Challenge Eleanor  Duncan  Wood  72 

Waif Amanda  Benjamin  Hall  73 

The  Ashman Joyce  Kilmer  77 

The  Freight  Yards Phoebe  Hoffman  84 

I  Would  Not  Die  in  April Clement  Wood  86 

Spring  Cowardice Leonora  Speyer  87 

A  Dead  Man Wilton  Agnew  Barrett  88 


Vlll 


Contents 


Not  I Lizette  Woodworth  Reese    89 

Funeral Raymond  Peckham  H olden    90 

A  Day  in  May Ruthele  Novak    92 

May Stephen  Moylan  Bird    93 

To  Narcissus Winifred  Welles    94 

A  Song  For  My  Father.  .  Grace  Hazard  Conkling    95 

The  Day  You  Went Beatrice  W.  Ravenel    96 

A  Revenant Dorothy  Anderson    97 

Tanager Abbie  Farwell  Brown    99 

My  Garden  is  a  Pleasant  Place. Louise  Driscoll  101 

My  Soul  is  a  Moth Dorothy  Anderson  104 

Three  Songs  For  E Sara  Teasdale 

I.  Gray  Eyes 106 

II.  Meadowlarks   106 

III.  The  Net 107 

Dusk  in  the  Garden  ....  Grace  Hazard  Conkling  108 

Rondels  of  Lomaland Kenneth  Morris 

The  Rain 109 

Noon  on  the  Hillside 109 

The  Flowers 110 

Evening  Over  False  Bay Ill 

A  Morning  in  September v Ill 

Pampas-Grass 112 

Kathleen Bernard  Raymund  113 

To  Dance! Margaret  B.  McGee  114 

Forest  Dance Mary  Carolyn  Davies  115 

The  Fiddler Edna  Valentine  Trapnell  117 

The  Dancer  in  the  Shrine. 

Amanda  Benjamin  Hall  119 
Fire- Weed  in  the  Forest.  .Julian  M.  Drachman  121 


IX 


Contents 


Courage,  Mon  Ami! Willard  Wattles  123 

Ha!  Ha! Willard  Wattles  124 

Joy  o'  Living Amanda  Benjamin  Hall  125 

Rendezvous Leonora  Speyer  127 

The  Naturalist  on  a  June  Sunday. 

Leonora  Speyer  129 

Week-End  Sonnets John  French  Wilson  131 

Fishing Maxwell  Struthers  Burt  134 

Inland Frances  Dickenson  Finder  137 

Weather , . . .  .Marguerite  Wilkinson  138 

Summer  Sea Archie  Austin  Coates  139 

Loneliness E.J.  Coatsworth  140 

Inland Edna  Valentine  Trapnell  141 

The  Tankers Gordon  Malherbe  Hillman  143 

"Shipping  News" David  Morton  145 

Crossing  on  the  Seattle  FERRY.C7are  D.  Stewart  146 

Beauty  Like  Yours David  Morton  149 

Sand Hortense  Flexner  150 

Masks Marianne  Moore  151 

The  Elm Odell  Shepard  152 

These  Are  Thy  Sheep,  Theocritus. 

Helen  Coale  Crew  154 

A  Home Hardwicke  Marmaduke  Nevin  157 

In  the  Sky  Garden Stephen  Moylan  Bird  158 

The  Queen's  Shrift D.E.P.  Harding  159 

From  "Songs  for  a  Mask".  .Margaret  Widdemer  162 

Swanhild  Sings  to  the  Knight 

The  Waterfall Marion  Couthouy  Smith  163 

Sixteen Elizabeth  Hanly  164 

Freesia Theresa  Helburn  166 

In Beatrice  W.  Ravenel  167 


Contents 


Under  Autumn  Trees.  ..Christine  Turner  Curtis  168 
An  Apple  Eater  to  a  Coquette.  . .  William  Laird  169 
The  Coquette  to  the  Apple  Eater. 

Mary  Eleanor  Roberts  170 

Four  Walls Mary  Morsell  171 

Broomgrass Beatrice  W.  Ravenel  172 

Certainty Beatrice  W.  Ravenel  173 

The  Soul's  Goodbye John  M.  Waring  174 

Bells  of  Erin Norreys  Jephson  0 'Conor  176 

Comfort t  Margaret  French  Patton  178 

Home Berenice  K.  Van  Slyke  179 

In  the  Hallway Louis  Ginsberg  181 

The  Singer  Exults Salomon  de  la  Selva  182 

The  Poet's  Path Daniel  Henderson  183 

Bubbles Oscar  C.  Williams  184 

Mist Margie  Potter  185 

Pulvis  Et  Umbra Edward  J.  O'Brien  187 

Revelation Louise  Townsend  Nicholl  188 

The  Tissue Gamaliel  Bradford  189 

Who Gamaliel  Bradford  190 

My  Youth Gamaliel  Bradford  191 

Brown  Leaves Gamaliel  Bradford  192 

The  Drone Gamaliel  Bradford  193 

Expenses Gamaliel  Bradford  194 

The  Dainty  Virtue Gamaliel  Bradford  195 

Rousseau Gamaliel  Bradford  196 

God Gamaliel  Bradford  197 

Bed-Time Ralph  M.  Jones  198 

After  Sorrow Winifred  Welles  200 

Winter  Flowers Effie  Bangs  Warvelle  201 


XI 


Contents 


Snow C.  A.  Huntington  202 

Stress  of  Snow Charles  R.  Murphy  203 

Stories Maxwell  Struthers  Burt  207 

Darkness Katharine  Wisner  McCluskey  210 

Songs  for  Parents John  Chipman  Farrar 

Wish 211 

A  Comparison 211 

Parenthood  212 

The  Wind-Gods Percival  Allen  213 

The  Choosing Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  215 

Mrs.  Senator  Jones Elliott  C.  Lincoln  218 

The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam.  .John  T.  Troth  220 

The  Old  Gods  March Leyland  Huck field  226 

Life  As  a  Gage  You  Flung John  Pierre  Roche  228 

Largess Leslie  Nelson  Jennings  229 

A  Prayer William  Laird  230 

Westward William  Laird  231 

Gee-Up  Dar,  Mules Edwin  Ford  Piper  233 

The  Drafted  Mountaineer  Salutes. 

Hortense  Flexner  235 

Sekhmet,  the  Lion-Headed Leonora  Speyer  236 

The  Taking  of  Bagdad Kadra  May  si  238 

Betrayal  and  Absolution. 

O.  R.  Howard  Thomson  240 
Candle  Famine  in  Paris. 

Louise  Townsend  Nicholl  242 

It  is  not  Strange Witter  Bynner  245 

Peace Frances  Dickenson  Pinder  246 

This  Soldier  Generation. 

William  Alexander  Percy  247 
Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 249 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  IS  strange  that  among  the  numerous  collections  of 
modern  American  verse  none  has  hitherto  been 
broadly  devoted  to  the  needs  and  interests  of  the  general 
reading  public.  It  is  due  to  this  lack,  I  feel,  that  many- 
intelligent  persons  have  looked  askance  at  the  so-called 
"new  verse,"  supposing  that  whatever  it  may  mean,  it 
can  mean  but  little  to  them.  Confronted  with  various 
recent  effusions,  they  have  gone  back  to  the  Fireside 
Encyclopedia,  or  some  similar  collection  of  their  old 
favorites.    This  was  a  pity,  and  yet  it  was  most  natural. 

The  fact  is  that  it  is  always  the  bizarre  and  eccentric 
in  contemporary  art  that  is  forced  upon  our  attention. 
The  quiet,  sincere  painter,  composer,  or  writer  has  to 
make  his  or  her  way  slowly.  Thus  while  the  imitators 
of  Whitman  and  various  imported  cults  have  been  ramp- 
ing on  the  American  literary  stage,  it  might  well  be 
supposed  that  Poe,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  and  Emerson 
have  had  no  successors.  Yet  these  latter  poets  were 
read  by  millions  when  Whitman  was  at  best  read  by 
thousands.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  underestimate  the 
growing  importance  of  Whitman,  but  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  merely  narrow  to  condemn  the  American  public 
because  it  still  prefers  the  simpler,  clearer  work  of  the 
other  poets. 

A  perusal  of  this  volume  will,  I  think,  show  that  the 
older  type  of  American  poetry  is  being  very  earnestly 
and  successfully  cultivated  today.  It  has  made  many 
important    developments,    has    thoroughly    caught    the 


xm 


Introduction 


vitality  of  this  generation,  without  losing  the  sanity 
of  the  earlier  tradition.  The  newer  popular  poetry,  as 
I  may  call  what  this  volume  attempts  to  present,  is 
very  properly  different  from  the  work  of  Poe  and  the 
New  England  school.  It  is  less  idealistic  than  Poe,  less 
moralizing  than  Lowell  or  Longfellow.  Above  all  things 
it  is  closer  to  life,  more  enthusiastic  about  the  world  of 
nature  and  men  that  surrounds  us.  In  this  may  be  seen 
the  more  beneficial  side  of  Whitman's  influence,  but 
the  advance  has  come  about  rather  from  the  changing 
temper  of  the  people  than  through  any  single  author  or 
group  of  authors. 

The  important  thing  here  is  to  define  the  difference 
between  the  newer  popular  poetry  and  the  radical  ex- 
periments which  have  partly  obscured  its  existence.  The 
crucial  point  is  the  distinction  between  individuality  and 
egotism.  One  class  of  versifiers,  with  the  desire  of  writ- 
ing what  people  will  like,  solve  the  question  by  writing 
only  what  people  have  liked;  in  other  words,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  they  imitate.  To  this  class  belong 
the  platitudinarians,  the  sentimentalists,  the  pseudo-clas- 
sicists— all  those  who  take  the  formulas  of  any  writer  or 
age  as  a  substitute  for  their  own  experiences  and  con- 
victions. They  may  imitate  cleverly,  may  even  give  a 
certain  amount  of  pleasure;  but  they  ring  hollow,  for 
they  have  not  even  lived  themselves  into  the  thoughts 
and  methods  of  others  sufficiently  to  be  good  translators. 

If  imitation  be  sterile,  why  not  shun  it  by  going  to 
the  other  extreme?  This  is  just  what  many  superficially 
clever  writers  are  doing.    But  in  fleeing  Scylla  they  rush 


xiv 


Introduction 


into  Charybdis,  the  whirlpool  of  egotism.  These  are  the 
post- Whitman  declaimers,  the  bathers  in  exoticism,  the 
color  fiends,  the  refiners  of  nuances,  the  free-verse  muck- 
rakers,  the  cacophonists  of  realism,  the  persons  who 
strain  to  reveal  something  startling  about  their  souls, 
or  their  bodies,  or  God.  Worst  of  all  are  those  who,  with 
nothing  to  say,  are  most  ingenious  in  finding  new  ways 
to  say  it,  i.e.,  the  dozen  and  one  cults  of  -ists. 

Certainly  much  good  paper  is  being  spoiled  in  the 
name  of  poetry.  Nevertheless,  today  as  in  the  past,  the 
essential  sanity  of  the  American  people  is  making  itself 
felt,  and  already  the  craze  of  false  innovation  is  on  the 
wane.  I  believe  that  now,  especially  since  the  war,  an 
increasing  majority  of  poetical  aspirants  are  doing  fine 
and  effectual  things.  The  timid  stand-patters  are  being 
displaced,  and  the  tumult  and  shouting  of  the  radicals 
is  rapidly  dying  away,  to  the  great  relief  of  our  spiritual 
ears.  People  begin  to  realize  that  there  are  many  living 
poets  who  have  essentially  something  to  say.  These 
poets  are  honestly  studying  their  craft,  not  as  a  vehicle 
of  self-exploitation,  but  as  a  means  of  transmitting  to 
their  fellow-men  the  best  that  life  has  revealed  to  them. 

The  words  "freedom"  and  "originality"  are  beginning 
to  be  less  loosely  used.  When  someone  on  an  actual  or 
a  metaphorical  soap-box  begins  to  rant  about  freedom, 
the  by-standers  begin  to  ask  themselves,  "freedom  to 
do  what?"  We  are  weary  of  being  disturbed  by  men 
who  merely  wish  to  call  attention  to  their  own  imagined 
superiorities  or  grievances.  It  is  the  same  with  origi- 
nality.    A  little  common  sense  will  demonstrate  that 


xv 


Introduction 


much  "originality"  is  as  valueless  for  actual  life  as  is  a 
museum  freak.  Emerson's  doctrine  of  "be  yourself," 
like  other  mystic  generalizations,  is  capable  of  abuse. 
To  be  oneself  is  only  a  poetic  merit  when  that  self  may 
be  sympathetically  interpreted,  not  to  a  self-admiring 
clique,  but  eventually  to  a  fairly  large  number  of  plain 
human  beings.  This  is  of  course  the  doctrine  of  Tolstoi: 
namely,  that  good  art  is  that  which  increases  within  us 
the  feeling  of  our  kinship  to  humanity. 

After  this  attempt  to  describe  the  present  state  of 
American  poetry,  I  have  but  to  sketch  most  briefly  the 
history  of  the  magazine,  Contemporary  Verse.  Con- 
temporary Verse  was  founded  at  the  beginning  of  the 
year  1916  as  an  all-poetry  monthly  by  Howard  S. 
Graham,  Jr.,  Devereaux  C.  Josephs,  and  Samuel  McCoy, 
three  young  graduates  respectively  of  Pennsylvania, 
Harvard,  and  Princeton.  Their  idea  was  simply  to  pre- 
sent some  of  the  vital  work  being  done  by  the  more 
normal  and  intelligible  of  the  younger  poets.  A  strong 
group  of  writers  rallied  to  the  new  magazine,  and  such 
critics  as  the  late  Joyce  Kilmer  of  The  Literary  Digest 
and  William  D.  Howells  in  Harpers  at  once  proclaimed 
it  the  best  periodical  of  its  kind. 

In  January,  1917,  Mr.  Graham  and  Mr.  Josephs  were 
forced  by  other  duties  to  retire  from  the  editorial  board, 
their  places  being  filled  by  James  E.  Richardson  and  my- 
self. Our  first  act  was  the  decision  never  to  print  in 
Contemporary  Verse  any  of  our  own  work,  confining 
our  editing  to  brief  notes  and  quotations.  Contem- 
porary Verse  always  stood  for  clean-cut  thought  and 


xvi 


Introduction 


workmanship  as  opposed  to  the  various  eccentricities  that 
were  discouraging  most  lovers  of  poetry.  During  the 
first  half  of  1917,  more  in  practice  than  in  theory,  we 
fixed  our  standards  definitely  for  sincerity  of  feeling  and 
directness  of  appeal.  We  wanted  not  merely  to  serve  a 
small  coterie  of  aesthetes,  we  wanted  to  help  interpret 
America  to  herself.  Most  of  the  other  magazines,  we 
thought,  were  over-stressing  the  appeal  of  novelty.  We 
believed  that  the  growing  power  of  American  poetry 
could  be  shown  to  express  itself  in  forms  that  an  average 
person  could  enjoy.  We  wanted  to  progress,  but  we  did 
not  want  to  lose  contact  with  the  great  mass  of  our 
fellow-countrymen. 

At  the  start,  the  magazine  had  depended  for  material 
upon  a  score  or  so  of  well-known  poets.  Soon,  however, 
we  began  to  get  many  interesting  manuscripts  by  un- 
known writers.  In  this  situation  we  naturally  decided 
to  print,  as  Mr.  Richardson  put  it,  "not  the  who's  who, 
but  the  what's  what."  Soon  we  became  known  as  giving 
unusual  consideration  to  new  poets.  Mr.  John  Masefield 
approved  strongly  of  the  closer-to-life  type  which  we 
began  to  cultivate,  and  gave  us  the  privilege  of  publish- 
ing his  notable  lyric,  "The  Choice."  Most  critics  were 
emphatic  as  to  the  improvement  of  the  magazine. 

Toward  the  end  of  1917  we  found  it  increasingly  diffi- 
cult to  arrange  editorial  conferences,  as  Mr.  McCoy 
and  Mr.  Richardson  were  much  tied  down  with  news- 
paper work.  It  was  therefore  arranged  that  I  should 
take  over  the  entire  management  of  Contemporary 
Verse,  which  I  conducted  alone  until  November,  1919, 


xvn 


Introduction 


when  Louise  Townsend  Nicholl  became  Associate  Editor. 
The  very  marked  increase  in  popularity  which  the  maga- 
zine attained  in  1918  had,  I  truly  feel,  very  little  to  do 
with  the  personality  or  judgment  of  the  editor.  Con- 
temporary Verse  had  been  established  on  sound  prin- 
ciples and  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  before  the 
right  type  of  poets  and  subscribers  would  make  the  ven- 
ture an  unqualified  success.  From  his  fiscal  year  of 
July,  1918,  to  July,  1919,  Mr.  Braithwaite  selected  more 
poems  from  Contemporary  Verse  for  his  Anthology  of 
the  best  magazine  poetry  than  he  took  from  any  other 
periodical.  The  New  Republic  proclaimed  Contem- 
porary Verse  as  "The  most  successful  of  our  magazines 
of  verse,"  adding:  "It  is  as  interesting  as  the  May 
woods."  Furthermore,  subscriptions  doubled  and  news- 
paper quotation  increased  about  fourfold. 

The  present  is,  therefore,  obviously  a  good  time  for 
us  to  attempt  an  anthology  of  the  best  work  published 
in  Contemporary  Verse  during  the  past  four  and  a  half 
years.  Owing  to  frequent  quotation  and  the  many  letters 
which  the  editor  receives  from  friendly  subscribers,  it  is 
an  unusually  easy  task  to  select  the  best  poems  of  the 
type  which  has  gained  the  magazine  its  wide  popularity. 
In  order  to  prevent  the  duplication  which  is  so  annoying 
in  many  anthologies,  no  poems  will  be  included  which 
have  appeared  in  the  Second  Volume  of  Modern  Verse, 
edited  by  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  or  in  Mr.  Braithwaite 's 
1916-1918  volumes.  Three  very  characteristic  poems, 
by  Leonora  Speyer,  John  French  Wilson,  and  Edwin 
Ford  Piper,  are  in  the  Anthology  for  1919,  having  been 


xvm 


Introduction 


selected  for  this  volume  before  Mr.  Braithwaite's  choice 
was  known.  Friends  of  Contemporary  Verse  will  note 
the  omission  of  some  of  our  most  famous  contributors, 
such  as  Mr.  Masefield,  Mr.  John  Galsworthy,  Mr.  Sas- 
soon,  Mr.  Edwin  A.  Robinson,  and  Mr.  Vachel  Lindsay. 
We  omit  the  English  poets  who  have  been  our  honored 
guests,  because  we  wish  to  see  what  the  United  States 
can  do  "on  its  own";  we  forbear  adding  the  glamour  of 
certain  American  names,  ^because  we  want  to  stress  the 
communal  appeal  rather  than  the  highly  individual.  We 
are  confident  that  no  other  book  has  ever  shown  how 
widespread  are  true  poetic  feeling  and  true  poetic  expres- 
sion in  this  country  and  generation. 

The  great  universal  motives  of  the  race:  love  of  home, 
delight  in  outdoor  nature,  generous  human  sympathy, 
kindly  humor,  and  a  quiet,  first-hand  religious  sense — 
all  of  these  will  be  found  in  abundance.  Recent  develop- 
ments along  the  old  lines  appear  in  the  more  strenuous 
urge  of  modern  life,  the  bold  confronting  of  evil  and  in- 
justice, and,  in  connection  with  the  war,  the  new  unro- 
mantic  type  of  heroism.  In  style  these  poems  will,  I 
think,  be  found  more  vivid,  more  compact,  and  more 
forceful  than  the  older  types.  A  greater  range  of  form 
will  be  evident.  A  moderate  number  of  free-verse  ven- 
tures have  been  included,  where  genuineness  of  feeling 
and  beautiful  handling  of  its  changing  rhythms  have 
seemed  to  justify  the  exceptions. 

It  has  been  frequently  said  that  no  single  author  can 
ever  succeed  in  expressing  the  United  States.  Perhaps, 
then,  a  hundred  poets,  representing  all  parts  of  the  coun- 


xix 


Introduction 


try,  may  come  nearer  to  the  mark.  Where,  one  may  ask, 
is  one  likely  to  find  more  American  idealism  than  in  a 
volume  such  as  this?  By  using  only  one-seventh  of  the 
poems  available,  it  has  been  possible  to  unite  sincere 
and  wide  appeal  with  comparatively  finished  expression. 
Though  clear  in  presentation,  some  of  the  pieces  are 
subtle  in  feeling,  and  few,  I  hope,  will  seem  obvious 
except  to  the  conscious  "intellectuals."  Whatever  the 
reception  of  this  particular  anthology,  it  is,  I  profoundly 
believe,  based  on  a  true  principle.  The  American  people 
has  a  right  to  ask  that  poetry  should  express  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  this  generation  in  a  style  which  can  be 
widely  understood  and  appreciated. 

For  help  in  preparing  this  anthology  I  am  primarily 
indebted  to  the  Associate  Editor,  Miss  Nicholl,  but  also 
in  a  hardly  less  degree  to  the  periodicals  and  newspapers 
that  have  quoted  from  our  pages,  and  to  the  numerous 
friends  whose  letters  have  shown  us  what  poems  were 
best  fulfilling  our  special  purpose. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork. 


xx 


CONTEMPORARY  VERSE  ANTHOLOGY 


AN   INVOCATION 

BY  DUBOSE   HEYWARD 

A  H,  Life,  press  close  thy  passionate  lips  to  mine 
jl\    Before  we  part; 
And  let  thy  mad,  ecstatic  hunger  throb 
Through  all  my  heart. 

Oh  haste  the  flood  tide  of  thy  glorious  youth 

Through  my  slow  veins, 
And  strike  this  deadening  palsy  from  my  limbs 

With  quickening  pains. 

Then  send  me  lilting,  vibrant  with  thy  song 
Upon  the  course  that  thou  hast  charted  out. 

And  give  me  all  the  tasks  the  weaklings  shun; 
That  triumphing,  I  prove  beyond  all  doubt 

The  high  invincibility  of  Thee. 

And  when  my  work  is  done,  in  Heaven's  name 
Oh  leave  me  not  to  flicker  back  to  Thee 

A  feeble,  ever-dying  little  flame. 

But  take  me  with  a  challenge  in  my  throat, 
Clear-eyed  and  lusty,  eager  for  the  strife — 

Bursting  all  bonds  for  sheer  excess  of  Thee; 
Then  hurl  me  thrilling  into  keener  Life. 


•  •  « 


.  •   •  • . 


TO-DAY 

BY  AMORY   HARE 

"ITTHAT  though  I  die  to-morrow?    Now  I  live! 
▼  »   To-day,  close-packed  with  opportunity, 
Is  mine;  within  whose  span  I  may  possess 
Laughter  and  tears,  mayhap,  and  in  one  hour 
Run  the  whole  scale  'twixt  joy  and  deep  despair. 
Warm  sentient  life,  I  know  and  love  thee  well! 
No  dread  of  parting  shall  bedim  that  hour 
When  all  my  Self  shall  pass  and  be  dispersed 
To  join  the  spacious  breathing  of  the  sky. 
For,  to  one  Being — kindred  to  my  own — 
To-day  I  have  been  all  things  beautiful. 
To  one  I  am  the  stars,  the  light,  the  breath 
The  music  of  the  world  set  forth  for  him! 
And  I  am  witchery  and  even  woe — 
Woe  of  a  quality  akin  to  joy. 
The  thought  of  me  is  subtly  intertwined 
With  twilight,  and  the  wheeling  swallow's  cry ; 
With  doorways  dimly  lit,  and  dark'ning  fields; 
The  long  road's  ending  and  the  lantern's  gleam; 
With  little  roofs  adream  beneath  the  moon. 
For  I  am  that  by  which  he  is  reborn; 
The  dearness  of  the  hearth  by  candlelight; 
The  mystery  wherein  two  spirits  blend. 
I  have  the  strange  remoteness  of  the  heavens 


2 


To-Day 


And  yet  the  patient  nearness  of  the  grass. 
I  will  not  waste  one  hour  to  question  why 
This  old  enchantment  should  have  come  to  me; 
Love's  shining  eyes  looked  bravely  into  mine 
A  moment  since,  and  all  my  being  sang 
"To-day  is  mine is  mine and  it  is  joy!" 


3 


THREE   POEMS 

BY   KARLE  WILSON  BAKER 

I  LOVE  THE  FRIENDLY  FACES  OF  OLD 
SORROWS 

I  LOVE  the  friendly  faces  of  old  Sorrows; 
I  have  no  secrets  that  they  do  not  know. 
They  are  so  old,  I  think  they  have  forgotten 
What  bitter  words  were  spoken,  long  ago. 

I  hate  the  cold,  stern  faces  of  new  Sorrows 
Who  stand  and  watch,  and  catch  me  all  alone. 

I  should  be  braver  if  I  could  remember 
How  different  the  older  ones  have  grown. 


DEATH   THE   HIGHWAYMAN 

HE  nurses  there  among  his  crags 
His  naughty  schemes — 
And  he  may  snatch  my  elfin  purse 
That's  stuffed  with  dreams; 

But  I  have  wealth  he  cannot  touch, 

Spoiler  of  kings! 
For  I  have  tasted  agony 

And  worn  joys  wings. 


MORNING  SONG 

THERE'S  a  mellower  light  just  over  the  hill, 
And  somewhere  a  yellower  daffodil, 
And  honey,  somewhere,  that's  sweeter  still. 

And  some  were  meant  to  stay  like  a  stone, 

Knowing  the  things  they  have  always  known, 
Sinking  down  deeper  into  their  own. 

But  some  must  follow  the  wind  and  me, 

Who  like  to  be  starting  and  like  to  be  free, 
Never  so  glad  as  we're  going  to  be! 


THE  AMERICAN 

BY  LOUIS  UNTERMEYEB 

SUDDENLY 
The  silence,  stretched  to  a  great  tensity, 
Snapped — and  the  dark  'house  rumbled  and  crashed. 
It  shook  that  pit  of  blackness,  slashed 
With  a  long,  flickering  sword  of  light 
That  beat  in  vain  against  a  white 
Cloth  wall  hard  in  its  brilliancy. 
The  thunder  grew;  it  roared  approvingly: 
A  lustiness,  gargantuan  and  clean, 
As  he, 

Doug  Fairbanks, 
Prodigal  and  playboy, 

Leaped  on  and  almost  out  beyond  the  screen. 
The  ribbon  flickered  faster,  drew 
Its  hero  through  a  maze  of  tangled  scenes  and  flew 
Out  of  the  heavy,  humdrum  world. 
He  took  the  people  with  him ;  caught  and  hurled 
Them  back  to  boyishness  and  bravery  again. 
Then- 
Madness;  gay  violence  ruled  the  scene    .    .    . 
There  was  a  race,  a  chase,  a  storm  of  soundless  blows. 
Laughing  he  bowled  a  dozen  gun-men  over    .    .    . 
Stopped  for  a  flash  to  be  a  high-speed  lover    .    .    . 


The  American 


Baffled    the    plugs    and    thugs    .    .    .    Hurdled    a 

fence    .    .    . 
Ruined     his     dress-suit    .    .    .    Thought     it     im- 
mense   .    .    . 
Leaped  three  landings    .    .    .    Squirmed  through  a 

crack    .    .    . 
Jumped  from  a  window  to  his  pony's  back. 
Beat  out  the  Limited 
Soared  like  a  bird. 
Jumped  into  a  Packard. 

Shot  her  into  third. 
Reached  the  ruined  building. 

Scaled  up  a  wall. 
Burst  into  the  meeting. 

Cornered  them  all. 
Trapped  the  whole  camorra. 

Made  their  short  hairs  curl. 
Freed  the  lovely  lady. 

("Close  up"  with  the  girl.) 


The  last  kiss  faded  out;  the  brightness  thinned. 
Hands  clattered  in  a  tempest  of  applause; 
(A  thousand  white  leaves  pattering  in  the  wind) 
Glory  turned  garish  in  the  following  pause. 
The  audience  shrank  with  it,  looked  and  grinned 
Sheepishly  at  itself,  then  turned  to  see 
What  the  next  number  on  the  bill  might  be. 
A  fat  man  sang  "J  hear  you  calling  me." 


8 


The  American 


But  something  still  persisted,  something  crude; 

Childishly  boisterous,  palpably  absurd. 

And  yet  it  spelled  America  in  rude 

Large  letters;  told  without  a  word 

The  essence  of  our  boyhood,  the  young  spirit 

Surer  of  naught  than  what  we  may  inherit; 

Intrepid  faith  that  does  not  stop  to  pray 

And  strength  that  springs  from  a  child's  love  of  play ; 

Reckless,  spontaneous,  prodigal,  immense, 

Taking  no  thought  of  cost  or  consequence. 

Again  life  flickered  from  the  shining  reels: — 

A  lady  vampire  posed  with  a  pet  snake. 

Six  odd-sized  clowns,  late  of  the  burlesque  "wheels," 

Dressed  as  policemen,  fell  into  a  lake. 

A  lisping  tenor,  painted  to  the  eyes 

Came  out  and  squeaked  "We're  going  to  smash  the 

Hun"    .    .    . 
Apd  still  the  spell  remained.    Out  of  the  lies 
And  cheap  hypocrisies  it  rose  and  spun 
Its  kindred  strands  of  fantasy  and  fun, 
Of  gaiety  unconquerable  and  wise, 
Of  the  brash  boy  in  us  that  never  dies 
But  keeps  us  better  than  a  text  or  truth, 
Bound  to  the  bright  democracy  of  youth. 


WHAT  IF  THE  LAPSE  OF  AGES  WERE  A 
DREAM? 

BY  STEPHEN  MOYLAN  BIRD 

WHAT  if  the  lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream, 
From  which  we  waked,  clutching  the  primal 
bough, 
Seeing  familiar  thunder-piercing  crags, 
Vast  dripping  woods,  and  saurian-bellowed  swamps, 
That  wearied  the  new  heavens  with  their  noise, 
Wild  seas,  that  maddened,  foaming,  ever  gnawed 
At  fog-wrapped  cliffs,  and  roaring  in  defeat, 
Ran  to  eye-wearying  distance,  without  shore — 
All  things  familiar;  but  our  dull  ape  minds 
Troubled  with  visions  vague;  the  hungry  roar 
Of  the  great  sabred  tiger  far  below 
Seeming  in  our  wild  dream  the  thund'rous  sound 
Of  hurtling  heated  monsters,  made  of  steel; 
And  the  God-scattered  worlds  that  gem  the  sky 
Seeming  in  vision  dread  the  blinding  glare 
Of  myriad  windows  in  huge  range  on  range 
Of  mountain  buildings,  teeming  o'er  with  life. 
The  wallowing  pleiosaurus'  gurgling  snort 
Changed  in  our  dream  to  rhythmic,  panting  roar 
Of  black  insensate  steel  amphibians, 
Daring  the  oceans  dread  horizon  line; 


10 


What  If  the  Lapse  of  Ages  Were  a  Dream? 

And  the  high  flap  of  pterodactyl  wings 

Making  us  whine  with  fear,  for,  in  our  dream, 

We  saw  vast  lifeless  birds,  that  roaring  flew, 

Commanded  by  weak  puny  likenesses 

Of  our  ape-selves;  we  cringed  with  terrors  vague 

Of  ungrasped  thoughts  we  could  not  understand — 

What  if  the  lapse  of  ages  were  a  dream? 


11 


THE    ANCHOR 

BY  WILLIAM  LAIBD 

BY  furious  fire  begotten, 
From  patient  iron  I  rose; 
Stern  hammers  were  the  midwives ; 
My  birth-caresses,  blows. 

Of  fire  that  dares  and  iron  that  bides. 
Thy  fierce,  grim  soul  had  stuff  and  form, 

That  flouts  the  touch  and  kiss  of  tides, 
And  sets  its  strength  against  the  storm. 

The  work  to  me  appointed: 

In  coral,  mud,  or  sand, 
To  strike,  and  grip  my  hardest; 

And,  having  gripped,  to  stand. 

i 

Unseen  thou  strivyst,  save  by  dark  bulks 
That  watch  thee  struggling  in  the  ooze, 

Or  staring  ports  of  crusted  hulks, 
Or  orbless  eye-pits  of  their  crews. 

The  beds  of  many  waters 
Have  felt  my  earnest  grip, 

That  saves  from  death  or  straying 
My  pretty,  foolish  ship. 


12 


The  Anchor 


The  desperate  bark,  with  strife  fordone, 
Sea,  earth,  and  air  her  foemen,  trusts 

Thy  grasp,  fell  set  where  many  a  one 
Of  thy  abandoned  brethren  rusts. 

Tho  last  they  slip  my  cable 

To  save  my  ship — forlorn, 
Forgot,  to  rust — what  matter? 

I  shall  have  striven  and  bome. 

Lord  God  of  Effort,  grant  me  such 

A  grave  as  this.    Be  it  my  lot 
Having  done  and  borne,  to  sleep,  nor  much 

To  care  how  much  men  say,  or  what 


13 


DEFEAT 

BY  GLENN   WARD  DRESBACH 

THERE  is  defeat  where  death  gives  anodyne 
And  all  desires  of  the  battle  wane 
In  deep  forgetfulness,  and  the  one  slain 
Lies  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  firing-line. 
There  is  defeat  where  flesh  fails  the  design 
Of  Spirit,  and  the  groping,  tortured  brain 
Sees  glories  lost  it  cannot  win  again. 
And  wears  itself  out  like  effect  of  wine. 

But  no  defeat  is  quite  so  imminent 

To  common  ways  as  the  defeat  Success 

Turns  into  when  it  puts  aside  the  dreams 

That  made  it  be,  and,  somehow,  grows  content 

With  what  it  is,  forever  giving  less 

Until  it  is  not,  and  no  longer  seems. 


14 


THE   TWO   DRINKERS 

(Translated  from  the  French  of  Charles  Vildrac.) 

BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

THEY  have  sat  down  together  for  a  little  drink; 
They  are  leaning  with  all  their  weight  on  their 
elbows; 
Their  words  are  meeting  and  their  eyes 
And  their  cheeks  and  voices  and  eyes  are  laughing 

across  the  table, 
And  0  what  good  ones  they're  telling! 
They  are  really  happy,  for  the  moment; 
They  are  really  happy  to  be  together; 
And  yet!     .    .    . 

And  yet, 

If  tomorrow  they  have  to  hurry  through  a  door 

Not  wide  enough  for  two 

Where  one  must  pass  after  the  other 

They  will  pause  before  it 

With  an  ugly  change  in  their  faces, 

With  an  ugly  look  at  each  other, 

And  a  slanting  look  toward  the  door. 

As  dogs,  with  a  bone  between  them, 
Growl,  warning  each  other  off, 
So  may  these  two  become  tomorrow,  or  tonight, 
These  two  who  now   are   friends   because  of   little 
drink    .    .    . 

15 


The  Two  Drinkers 


— That  is  true  enough  and  it's  sad  too 
But  that's  not  the  way  to  say  it! 
This  is  the  way  to  say  it: 

These  two  men  who  are  laughing 

Might  be  fighting  for  no  reason: 

They  might  find  a  thousand  reasons 

To  be  fighting; 

There  are  reasons  a-plenty! 

They  need  only  pick,  they  need  only  choose! 

But  no: 

Deep  in  that  old  heart  of  theirs, 

In  the  secret  need  of  union  and  of  mirth, 

And  in  a  moment  of  unbending, 

While  the  spite  of  life  has  left  that  poor  old  heart  to 

itself, 
See  how  their  eyes  are  laughing, 
See  how  they  slap  each  other's  shoulders, 
See  how  they  have  no  doubt  of  each  other, 
See  how  they  like  to  offer  each  other  drinks, 
And  0  what  good  ones  they're  telling! 


16 


GOLD-IN-GRAY 

BY  ROBERT  GILBERT  WELSH 

WHEN  he  tumbles  out  of  bed  at  daybreak, 
The  old  care-taker  curses  and  swears, 
And  when  he  tumbles  in  again  at  night 
He  swears  and  curses.    v 

If  the  morning  coffee  is  poor 

Or  the  evening  meal  is  tardy, — 

He  calls  on  the  Almighty  to  blast  them, 

And  assigns  his  wife  who  made  them 

To  an  unrighteous  and  ignominious  end. 

What  he  says  about  physical  parts  and  processes 

Brings  a  blush  to  the  cheeks  of  the  sedate  and  decorous 

Who  pretend  that  they  do  not  hear  him, 

Yet  remain  within  earshot 

And  thrill  inwardly 

At  the  rank  perfume  of  the  speech. 

He  looks  at  the  errand  boy 

As  his  muddy  feet 

Leave  tracks  on  the  clean  tiles, 

And  with  slow  deliberate  sentences 

He  makes  clear  the  immoral  relations 

Of  the  errand  boy's  immediate  family 

And  every  one  of  his  ancestors 

All  the  way  back  to  Judas  Iscariot  and  Cain. 

17 


Gold-In-Gray 


"Profanity  do  you  call  it?" 
.Mutters  the  old  grouch 
On  the  top  floor, 
"Fiddlesticks! 
I  call  it  Romance 
Gasping  for  breath 
In  gray  reality  1" 


18 


ECHOES 

RY  RUTH  LAMBERT  JONES 

TRAVELING  at  dusk  the  noisy  city  street, 
I  listened  to  the  newsboys'  strident  cries 
Of  "Extra,"  as  with  flying  feet, 

They  strove  to  gain  this  man  or  that — their  prize. 
But  one  there  was  with  neither  shout  nor  stride, 

And,  having  bought  from  him,  I  stood  near-by, 
Pondering  the  cruel  crutches  at  his  side, 

Blaming  the  crowd's  neglect,  and  wondering  why — 
When  suddenly  I  heard  a  gruff  voice  greet 

The  cripple  with,  "On  time  to-night?w 
Then,  as  he  handed  out  the  sheet, 

The  Youngster's  answer — "You're  all  right. 
My  other  reg'lars  are  a  little  late. 

They'll  find  I'm  short  one  paper  when  they  come; 
You  see,  a  strange  guy  bought  one  in  the  wait, 

I  thot  'twould  cheer  him  up — he  looked  so  glum  I" 

So,  sheepishly  I  laughed,  and  went  my  way, 
For  I  had  found  a  city's  heart  that  day. 


19 


WON   BY  EAR 

BY  DANIEL  W.  TROY 

THEAH?S  a  man  up  the  street 
Ah'm  jus'  itchin'  tuh  meet — 
He's  the  man  with  the  slidin'  trombone, 
Ah  don't  understand 
How  he  does  it  so  gran* 
But  he  sho'  gits  uh  wonderful  tone. 
That  Mendels'n  Song — 
He  jus'  rags  it  uh-long 
An'  zoons  it  right  intuh  mah  soul. 
When  he  plays  "Ovuh  Theah" 
Ev'ry  kink  in  my  haih 
Jus'  natchully  stahts  tuh  unroll. 
Mistah  Man,  Mistah  Honey, 
Take  me  an*  mah  money, 
Whenevuh  yo'  want  me  Ah'm  yo'n. 
Ah'll  cook  while  yo'  eat — 
Shine  the  shoes  on  yo'  feet — 
If  yo'll  play  on  that  slidhV  trombone. 


20 


"SHINE!" 

BY  AMORY   HARE 

WAN  of  de  boot-black  on  de  ferra-boat, 
I  watcha  de  beeg  crowd'  goin'  back  an*  fort', 
And  a  queekly  count  de  feet  dat  might  be  wort* 
A  leetla  dime  for  mekdem  shiny  coat. 

Great  many  feet  I  watcha  een  a  day  I 

Wan  vera  leetla  shoes  I  have-a  shine' 

Wit'  holes  een  toes  dat  should  have  been  een  fine 

Warm  boots,  de  owner  was  so  vera  gay 

■ 
So  vera  sweet  to  look  at  een  de  eyes! 
I  lak  to  shine  dos  leetla  toes  for  her. 
Wan  day  I  see  a  man,  dressed  lak  chauffeur, 
And  leetla  lady  looka  at  de  skies 

And  tek  de  han's ;  I  look  de  odder  way, 
And  all  de  night  I  teenk  of  leetla  wan, 
She  have  look  up  so  loveeng  een  de  sun, 
And  not  care  what  de  beega  crowd  might  say. 

And  een  de  morn'  when  ferra-boat  eet  start 
I  shine  for  her  de  leetla  shabby  toes, 
And  she  say  "Tony"  (red-a  lak  a  rose) 
"Shine  beeg  today,  for  I  have  geev'  my  heart, 


21 


Shine! 


And  when  I  come  tonight,  my  leetla  friend 
I  show  you  someteeng  on  dees  lefta  han\ 
He  ees  so  fine  a  man,  so  vera  gran'! 
I  shan'  be  on  dees  ferra-boat  again!" 

But  when  de  night  eet  come,  she  come  alone 
An'  creep  into  de  dark  behin'  de  stair, 
An'  when  I  pass  I  see  her  crying  dere, 
And  when  I  spik  she  give  me  leetla  moan. 

Poor  leetla  wan!    Poor  laugheeng  leetla  rose! 
I  watch  de  many  feet  dat  pattera  past, 
And  count  de  faces  hurryeeng  so  fast — 
But  never  see  dos  shabby  leetla  toes! 


22 


PIER  6 

BY  FRANCIS  T.  KIMBALL 

THE  street  was  dark  enough,  but  on  the  wharves 
The  piles  and  stacks  and  careless  heaps  of  goods 
Mottled  the  darkness  with  %  a  deeper  hue, 
Like  gobs  of  ink  spilled  on  a  piece  of  slate. 
The  moon  that  should  have  been  was  smothered  out, 
And  not  a  star  point  pierced  the  folds  of  cloud. 
Came  but  the  lap  of  waters  on  the  piles, 
And  farther,  out  of  nothingness,  the  bleat 
Of  some  belated  prowler  of  the  deep. 
I  stood  with  hands  in  pockets,  listlessly, 
Watching  the  silent  shapes  that  filled  the  pier, 
And  thinking  of  my  unrequited  thoughts, 
When  suddenly  a  shadow  seemed  to  move 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  blacker  dark 
Ahead  of  me.    I  started,  and  felt  my  lids 
Lifting  until  the  sea  breeze  stung  my  eyes, 
And  I  must  blink,  and  then  the  moon  was  out, 
And  facing  it  a  woman,  motionless. 
I  started  forward,  and  as  quickly  back, 
Shrinking  against  a  packing  case  to  wait. 
Full  in  the  moon  she  stood,  a  marble  form, 
Mellow  and  round  before  the  moon's  regard, 
Yet  gaunt  and  palpable  as  any  cur, 
Advertisement  of  mange  and  much  abuse, 


23 


Pier  6 


Ragged  in  outline  and  a  thing  of  rags. 

Slowly  she  moved,  and  casting  off  the  shawl 

That  hid  her  last  injustice  for  a  while, 

She  raised  a  ragged  bundle  in  her  arms, 

And  tottered  to  the  splintered  edge,  and  crouched. 

But  as  she  paused,  before  I  caught  my  breath, 

The  baby  in  the  bundle  wailed  aloud, 

And  fell  to  whimpering  incessantly. 

The  woman  shivered,  and  then  stepping  back, 

Held  with  one  hand  the  bundle  on  her  thigh, 

And  with  the  other  fumbled  at  her  waist, 

And  bared  her  breast,  and  bent  above  the  child. 


24 


THE  WATCHMAN 

BY    MIRIAM   VEDDER 

THE  watchman  walked  the  little  streets 
With  slow  and  steady  tread ; 
He  swung  his  lantern  as  he  went, — 
"All's  well!"  the  watchman  said. 


Behind  close  blinds  a  woman  sat 

Who  had  no  more  to  sell; 
The  watchman  paused  before  her  door 

"All's  well!"  he  cried,  "All's  well!" 


An  old  man  shivered  in  the  dark 

Who  had  no  bread  to  eat; 
Echoed  the  watchman's  cry,  "All's  well!" 

Along  the  empty  street. 

The  watchman  passed  a  silent  house 

Wherein  a  child  had  died; 
A  candle  burned  against  the  pane, — 

"All's  well!"  the  watchman  cried. 

All  through  the  night  the  watchman  passed 

With  slow  and  steady  tread; 
And  ever  to  the  little  streets 

"All's  well!"  the  watchman  said. 


25 


GOD'S   PITY 

BY  LOUISE  DRISCOLL 

GOD  pity  all  the  brave  who  go 
The  common  way,  and  wear 
No  ribboned  medals  on  their  breasts, 
No  laurels  on  their  hair. 

God  pity  all  the  lonely  folk 
With  griefs  they  do  not  tell, 

Women  waking  in  the  night, 
And  men  dissembling  well. 

In  common  courage  of  the  street 
The  crushed  grape  is  the  wine, 

Wheat  in  the  mill  is  daily  bread 
And  given  for  a  sign. 

And  who  but  God  shall  pity  them 

Who  go  so  quietly? 
And  smile  upon  us  when  we  meet, 

And  greet  us  pleasantly. 


26 


MAKE   BELIEVE 

HELEN   HOYT 

I  CAN  feel  at  my  breast 
Your  tiny  hand  a-stray, 
And  your  lips  clinging  pressed, 
And  the  weight  of  you  at  rest, 

As  if  you  truly  lay 
Where  my  curved  arm  dreams  to  hold  you. 

You  so  little,  you  so  dear! 
Soft  I  let  my  love  enfold  you; 
In  the  dark,  with  none  to  see, 

I  bend  to  bring  my  breast  more  near; 
Feel  you  drinking,  drinking  me. 


27 


PATCHWORK 

BY   MARY  WILLIS   SHUEY 

SHE  never  had  a  pattern  all  her  own, 
But  from  the  scattered  scraps  of  other  lives, 
The  remnants  that  the  others  did  not  want, 
She  pieced  a  patch-work  that  she  called  her  soul. 

Broken,  irregular, 

Small  bits  of  color, 

Pieced  on  a  background  of  dull  brown  and  gray. 

Faded,  discarded, 

Carefully  fitted, 

She  pieced  her  a  life  from  what  they  threw  away. 

Their  lives  were  made  in  regular  designs, 
Their  years  were  blocks  of  color  and  of  beauty. 
Lucy  pieced  love.  John  squares  of  engineering, 
But  all  they  left  for  her  was  service,  duty 

Sometimes  a  square, 

Once  a  pink  rose, 

Haphazard  blocks  made  of  small  tasks  they  shirked, 

Sewing,  nursing, 

Keeping  the  home, 

The  others  had  pleasure;  she  merely  worked. 


28 


Patchwork 


She  never  had  a  pattern  all  her  own, 
And  yet  from  what  she  had  she  pieced  a  soul; 
A  crazy-quilt,  perhaps,  that  no  one  wants, 
A  life  that  never  even  knew  a  goal 


29 


A  SONG  OF  BUTTE 

BY   HOWARD   MUMFORD  JONES 

T  AM  the  city  demoniac!     Desolate,  mournful,  in- 
*  fernal 

Dweller  apart  among  and  upon  the  amazing  hills, 
Seen  of  the  poet  of  hell,  I  am  she,  the  dark,  the  un- 
vernal 
Cybele,  wearing  my  crown  of  fantastic  mines  and 
mills ! 
My  breasts  are  girdled  with  iron;  and  under  the  place 
of  my  feet 
Is  copper,  and  over  my  head  in  a  green  and  copper 
sky 
A  sulphurous  sun  goes  by  and  I  find  his  going  sweet. 
My  sisters  have  many  jewels — is  any  so  strange 
as  I? 

I  am  the  secret  of  night,  transformed  from  an  evil 
thing 
To  a  dream  of  passionate  hope!    A  blur  and  cluster 
of  stars, 
A  galley  of  tremulous  light,  I  lift  from  my  anchor  and 
swing 
Outbound  for  the  farthest  ports  that  lie  past  the 
lighthouse  Mars! 


30 


A  Song  of  Butte 


I  splinter  the  darkness  with  glory,  I  burn  like  fire  on 
the  hills, 
I  am  Caerleon  and  Usk!     I  am  the  hurt  of  the 
moon! 
Because  of  my  lonely  beauty  the  soul  takes  thought 
and  fills 
Till  I  cause  the  pulse  to  leap  that  I  stayed  with 
horror  at  noon. 

I  am  the  city  cast  out,  harlot  and  common  scold 

Shrilling  loud  in  the  street,  the  taunter  of  all  ye  love, 
Holding  what  others  scorn,  scorning  what  others  hold, 
Flaunting  the  vulgar  shame  my  sisters  are  reticent 
of. 
I  am  the  mistress  of  many,  untrue  and  adulterous 
queen, 
Naked,  tawdry,  Priapian ;  Lo,  and  what  sin  is  mine? 
They  who  have  kissed  farewell  on  my  painted  lips, 
have  seen 
My  sisters  are  hypocrite  souls  that  blush  for  their 
lust  and  wine. 

I  am  also  the  scoffer,  the  tester,  the  prover  of  life ! 
This  one  comes  to  me  pure  and  I  make  him  dirty  and 
mean, 
This  one  comes  to  me  lewd,  and  forth  from  my  iron 
strife 
Joyous  he  goes  and  proud,  and  clean  as  a  bride  is 
clean  1 


31 


A  Song  of  Butte 


0  sisters,  look  to  your  courts!    Can  ye  look  and  say 

as  much? 
How  doth  it  stand  with  you?    Have  ye  builded  over 

a  fen, 
That  your  white- faced,  pasty  brood  shrinks  back  from 

my  hurt  and  smutch? 
They  that  go  down  in  my  bowels  and  grip  me  are 

not  as  your  men ! 

1  am  likewise  the  challenge,  the  mixing  of  many  in 

one; 
Lustful,  reckless,  I  yield  to  the  urge  of  life  and  the 
slack, 
A  myriad  races  come  and  beneath  my  dispassionate 
sun 
I  mix  and  change  and  remold  and  send  them,  a 
nation,  back; 
Indifferent  seeker  and  spurner,  I  lure  from  city  and 
shore 
Italian,  negro  and  Slav.    Their  foster-mother  am  I ! 
And  the  man-child  tugs  at  my  breast  and  is  nourished 

and  knows  no  more 
The  sound  of  an  alien  tongue  or  the  heat  of  a  foreign 
sky! 

I  am  also  the  spirit,  the  city  chosen  of  God, 

Vast  and  pregnant  seeker,  aspirer  and  knower  of 
dreams: 
I  that  search  in  the  earth  for  dross  go  also  abroad 
Rousing  my  sisters  that  sleep,  contented,  beside  their 
streams. 


A  Song  of  Butte 


On  a  riddling  quest  I  go  as  the  ancient  mother  went — 
My  sisters,  ye  look  ashamed  when  my  asking  foot- 
steps come, 
But  under  my  breast  I  bear  the  answer  the  Riddler 
meant: 
I  am  Democracy's  mother  1    0  sisters,  why  are  ye 
dumb? 


33 


LAND   OF  THE   FREE 

BY  GERTRUDE   CORNWELL   HOPKINS 

HP  HERE  is  a  man  within  a  grimy  window-square; 

*     I  do  not  know  how  long  it  is  he  has  been  there — 

Three  years  of  working-days  I've  passed  on  trains 

high  in  the  air, 
And  always  he  was  there. 
He  makes  three  motions:  two  are  forward  and  one 

back, 
Two  thrusts  and  then  a  draw.     There  is  no  pause 

(the  knack 
Is  perfect)  while  his  left  hand  pulls  from  out  a  stack 
Leather — I  think — the  track 
Curves  sharp,  and  will  not  let  me  see 
Just  what  the  task    .    .    .    But  0, 1  know  the  moves 

he  makes  are  three: 
I  see  him  when  I  pass  to  days  that  are  full  long  to  me, 
Again  at  night,  when  I  am  free. 

No  clod — 

The  face  is  keen,  the  hands  and  arms  are  lean  and 

tense,  like  wire. 
From  some  far  land  he  came  to  us:  was  his  desire 
To  bind  his  young  and  vivid  life  to  this,  for  meagre 

hire? 
He  burns,  I  think    .    .    .    dull  fire. 


34 


THE  POEM 

BY  CLEMENT  WOOD 


I  LIFT  my  gaze  from  one  poet's  book, 
Archaic,  pallid,  uncterwise, 
Then  stop  my  strained  and  fretful  look- 
Why,  here's  a  poem  before  my  eyes! 

Not  in  the  books,  whose  marshalled  rows 
Wait  for  my  seeking  to  disclose 
Their  thin  and  varied  thus-and-soes; 

Not  in  the  iris  flower  of  June, 
That  proudly  spills  its  purple  boon, 
A  wordless,  soundless,  fragrant  tune; 

Not  in  the  waiting  ivory  keys, 
Nor  the  room's  pleasant  harmonies, 
Sweet  with  disheveled  memories ; 

My  restless  eyes  achieve  their  rest, 
Break  to  a  smile,  and  ponder  where, 

With  face  at  peace  and  moveless  breast, 
My  tired  young  wife  lies  sleeping  there. 


35 


The  Poem 


ii. 

Peace  on  her  face,  peace  in  this  room — 

Oh,  it  is  far  to  the  flaring  gloom 

Where  war's  strange,  fiery  flowers  bloom. 

Immobile  breast  and  moveless  air- 
On,  it  is  far  to  red  roads  where 
Torn  bodies  twitch,  and  still,  eyes  stare. 

0,  can  there  be  so  sad  a  place, 

Where  writhes  a  self- destructive  race?    .    •    ■ 

Immobile  breast,  peace  in  her  face. 

III. 

Her  gentle  breathing  scarce  unfurls 

The  tiniest  of  her  sleeping  curls. 

The  eyes  are  closed,  the  soul  withdrawn; 

The  wax  cheeks  show  a  gentle  flush 

As  when  the  East  begins  to  dawn; 

As  quiet  is  her  couch's  hush. 

One  hand  is  cupped  beneath  her  brow; 

The  other  lies  with  fingers  still 

Upon  the  coverlet;  and  now 

She  almost  smiles,  as  some  deep  thrill, 

Dream- woven,  has  its  vagrant  will. 

IV. 


Where  do  you  wander, 
Out  in  your  dreams? 
What  gay  adventures, 


36 


The  Poem 


What  sombre  journeys, 
What  wings  upbear  you 
As  you  accomplish 
All  your  hid  longings? 

Do  you  climb  lonely, 
Sky-secret  mountains? 
Do  .you  grope  blindly, 
Leaden,  foot-hindered, 
Thru  threatening  caverns? 
Do  you  face  dangers, 
Stormy  gray  sea-ways, 
Night-haunted  sorrows? 
And  am  I  with  you, 
I,  the  beloved    .    .    . 
Or  do  you  fly  me, 
Me,  a  dream-enemy? 

May  you  tread  safely 
In  your  far  dreaming, 
Gaining  the  goals! 

V. 

Ah,  you  seem  so  sound  asleep! 
Body  laved  in  stillness  deep, 
Soul,  whose  silent  slumbers  keep 

Far  away  the  restlessness 
Of  the  stupid  world's  distress, 
Plastic  to  the  dream's  caress. 


37 


The  Poem 


And  I  am  so  far  away, 

Here,  where  my  quick  fancies  play 

With  your  quiet  self  today ! 

Why  seek  in  a  printed  place, 
When  in  her  sleeping  beauty  lies, 

With  moveless  breast  and  peaceful  face, 
A  very  poem  before  my  eyes? 


38 


THE   BIRD 

BY   CAROLINE   STERN 

SIR,  he  is  not  for  sale; 
Only  a  snow-white  dove 
Found  in  the  wilderness 
Singing  of  love; 
In  a  dead  wilderness, 
Singing  of  love. 

Sir,  I  but  seek  to  find 
Who  might  his  master  be ; 
Then  I  will  yield  my  bird 
Freely  and  cheerily. 
Asking  no  fee  in  turn, 
Giving  him  blithely. 

Ah,  he  has  flown  from  mel 
Gone  with  a  whirring  wing. 
Sir,  in  your  bosom,  see, 
My  bird  is  fluttering; 
Nestling  against  your  breast, 
Singing  and  fluttering. 


39 


CHAINS 

BY  GLENN   WARD  DRESBACH 

WHY  did  you  not  hold  me  with  chains 
Of  steel  all  dull  and  cold 
That  I  might  strain  against  their  strength 
As  long  as  they  could  hold? 

That  I  might  see  the  links  sink  in 
My  flesh  and  make  blood  flow, 
While  I  could  hope  to  break  my  chains 
And  hurl  them  down  and  go! 

But  in  these  chains  you  hold  me  with, 
Only  my  Spirit  frets — 
For  who  could  use  brute  force  to  break 
A  chain  of  violets! 


40 


DISTANCE 

BY   MARGARET  E.    MCCALLIE 

THE  lake  was  not  more  calm  or  clear 
Than  was  your  voice.    Your  words  alone 
Were  plain  enough,  "God  drew  us  near," 
Yet  there  was  logic  in  your  tone. 
Since  doubting  you  had  cost  me  pain, 
I  clutched  at  timid  hope  again, 
When  up  from  the  reeds  with  sudden  whirr 
Of  heavy  wings,  a  coot  swung  high 
His  somber  body  stretched  to  blurr 
The  paling  sun  against  the  sky. 
I  turned  to  seek  my  swift  surprise 
Repeated  in  your  radiant  eyes, 
And  met  your  steady  earnest  gaze 
No  spread  of  wings  could  set  ablaze, 
And  then  I  knew  how  far  apart 
y?e  really  were  from  heart  to  heart. 


41 


THE  DAY  THAT  LOVE  GAME  DOWN 
TO  ME 

HANIEL  LONG 

HE  day  that  love  came  down  to  me, 
Now  must  I  dress  me  well,  said  she. 

Since  he  has  only  mortal  ears 
And  only  mortal  language  hears, 
I  must  give  up  my  native  tongue 
And  many  a  native  song  I've  sung. 

I  must  put  on  a  mortal  veil, 
And  all  for  him  my  wonders  pale ; 
Leaving  my  boundless  home  above  me, 
I'll  be  a  girl,  that  he  may  love  me. 

And  yet  my  love  could  not  disguise, 
When  she  came  down,  her  deathless  eyes. 


42 


A  SONG  OF  PIERROT 

BY   MAURICE   A.    HANLINE 

THE  cloak  of  laughter  I  have  worn 
Has  only  served  to  hide  the  smart. 
The  bells  and  bladder  I  have  born 

Could  wake  no  echo  in  my  heart. 
And  all  the  places  where  I  go 

Are  sweet  with  memories  of  you  yet. 
The  laughing  footsteps  of  Pierrot 
Are  always  searching  for  Pierrette. 

Upon  my  face  a  painted  smile, 

Upon  my  lips  a  scarlet  stain, 
Before  my  feet  an  endless  mile, 

That  I  must  dance,  despite  the  pain. 
Along  the  road  red  poppies  grow, 

Perhaps  your  scarlet  lips  have  set 
Upon  their  petals,  for  Pierrot, 

A  tithe  of  kisses,  dear  Pierrette. 

The  lips  I  knew  have  left  their  scars, 
Each  rose  beneath  had  hid  a  thorn, 

Your  love  was  lost  among  the  stars, 
I  could  not  wait  until  the  morn. 


43 


A  Song  of  Pierrot 


The  night  was  lonesome,  love,  and  so 
I  sought  the  roses  to  forget. 

But  they  have  withered  and  Pierrot 
Longs  for  the  kisses  of  Pierrette. 

If  in  your  place,  you  hear  my  song, 

Hear,  too,  beneath,  the  strain  of  tears, 
I  dance  before  the  grinning  throng. 

Their  mocking  laughter  fills  my  ears, 
My  giddy  steps  are  all  they  know. 

They  do  not  see  my  eyes  are  wet. 
I  am  a  tired,  lost  Pierrot, 

Where  are  you  hiding,  my  Pierrette? 

I/Envoi 

Ah  princess,  I  shall  never  know! 

You  smile  and  smile  and  say,  "Forget" 
The  tears  and  laughter  of  Pierrot 

Are  but  the  playthings  of  Pierrette. 


44 


THE   UNFORGIVEN 

BY  NANCY  BARE  MAVITY 

YOU  blew  my  future  away  with  a  breath, 
As  the  little  white  feathers  are  blown  from  the 
dandelion, 
Leaving  only  a  knob  and  a  stalk 
Where  once  in  the  long  grass  shone  a  golden  blossom. 

But  for  this  may  I  not  forgive  you? 
The  future  is  lost  only  to  be  made  again — 
From   the   blown   seed-pods   again   sunny   blossoms 
awaken. 

But  0,  once  dear,  you  have  taken  the  past, 

And  trodden  it  under  your  feet  like  a  spent  rose  leaf. 

You  have  left  no  beauty  uncrushed  within  it. 

No  sorrow  made  fragrant  by  memories  can  be  mine, 

For  you  have  taken  my  memories  one  by  one; 

You  have  stripped  them  and  torn  them  until  I  dare 

not  look. 
And  for  that  you  would  not  leave  my  past  unhurt 
In  its  sheltered  garden  of  old  beauty, 
I  cannot  forgive  you. 


45 


THE   DOOR 

BY   MARY   CAROLYN  DAVIES 

THE  littlest  door,  the  inner  door, 
I  swing  it  wide. 
Now  in  my  heart  there  is  no  more 
To  hide. 

The  farthest  door — the  latch  at  last 

Is  lifted;  see. 
I  kept  the  little  fortress  fast. 

— Be  good  to  me. 


46 


INVIOLATE 

BY  MAKX  G.   SABEL 

I  SHALL  remember  you  as  wistfulness, 
As  petulance,  and  shadowy  romance. 
Growing  more  vivid  as  the  years  advance 
You  shall  remain  my  memory.    The  dress 
You  wore  on  one  impassible,  proud  day, 
The  way  your  hair  meandered,  tricks  of  speech, 
All  these,  my  riches,  shall  far  overreach 
Youth's  gradual  withdrawal,  and  decay. 

There  was  no  giving,  no,  and  naught  of  asking, — 
We  were  too  filled  with  wonderment  and  awe. 
There  was  no  sudden,  sensual  unmasking 
To  dissipate  the  beauty  that  we  saw. 
You  shall  remain  intact,  and  always  new 
For  dreams  were  all  I  ever  had  of  youl 


47 


\ 


"LES   LAURIERS   SONT   COUPES" 

BY  ELINOR  WYLEE 

AH,  love,  within  the  shadow  of  the  wood 
The  laurels  are  cut  down;  some  other  brows 
May  bear  the  classic  wreath  which  Fame  allows 
And  find  the  burden  honorable  and  good. 
Have  we  not  passed  the  laurels  as  they  stood — 
Soft  in  the  veil  with  which  the  Spring  endows 
The  wintry  glitter  of  their  woven  boughs — 
Nor  stopped  to  break  the  branches  while  we  could? 

Ah,  love,  for  other  brows  they  are  cut  down. 
Thornless  and  scentless  are  their  stems  and  flowers, 
And  cold  as  Death  their  twisted  coronal. 
Sweeter  to  us  the  sharpness  of  this  crown; 
Sweeter  the  wildest  roses  which  are  ours; 
Sweeter  the  petals,  even  when  they  fall. 


48 


CERTITUDE 

HELEN   HOYT 

I  HAVE  heard  him  speak  my  name 
Passionately,  like  a  word  of  flame, 
And  a  young  girl  might  gay 
This  was  love's  only,  truest,  way. 

She  would  not  understand 
How  the  brief,  half  gruff  command 
Of  his  voice,  weary  or  sick, 
Touches  so  deeply  the  heart's  quick. 

How,  when  he  says  "dear,"  or,  "dearest,"  absently, 
The  words  are  precious  and  their  tone  to  me; 
Though  it  should  happen  he  turned  not  his  head; — 
Unconscious,  almost,  that  the  words  are  said. 

They  are  a  use  and  custom  of  his  tongue. 

Words  are  more  fierce  when  they  are  new  and  young, 

But  have  they  not  a  dearer  hold, 

When  use  and  happy  frequence  turn  them  old? 

Love,  broadening,  forgets  the  early  need 
To  say  itself  in  words;  to  charm  and  plead: 
Love,  broadening,  diffuses  its  wild  might; 
Habitual  grows,  like  breath  and  sight. 


49 


Certitude 


Like  sight,  or  breath,  a  certitude, 
A  priceless  good;  but  unthanked  good: 
Too  sure,  too  long,  long  known  for  speech; 
Too  wide  for  proof  of  words  to  reach. 


50 


BY  THE   HEARTH 

BY   AMORY   HARE 

IT  may  have  been  a  light  elusive  thing, 
Yet  at  the  time  the  joy  of  it  possessed  me. 
And  afterwards  a  furtive  wish  obsessed  me 
To  make  it  his:   to  seize  his  thoughts,  and  bring 
Such  cunning  to  my  words  that  he  should  guess, 
The  living  magic  of  its  loveliness. 

So,  after  penance  of  long  waiting,  I 

Told  swiftly  all, 

Not  watching  him,  but  gazing  at  the  wall, 

My  thoughts  caught  back,  yet  poised  as  if  to  fly, 

I  watched  for  some  small  gesture,  or  a  word 

To  show  he  understood  what  he  had  heard. 

Silent  and  still  he  was;  and  suddenly 

My  heart  dived  down,  then  rallied,  beating  quickly, 

Swerving  from  doubt  to  faith ;  and  then  a  sickly 

Feeling  of  impotence  swept  over  me. 

Daring  at  last  1  took  a  furtive  peep, 

And  watched  him  sleep! 

Then  came  distaste:  and  afterwards  bruised  blankness, 
The  blankness  of  a  mind  without  a  mood; 


51 


By  the  Hearth 


My  thoughts,  wrung  dry,  went  wandering  till  they 

stood 
Angry  and  hard  at  friendship  going  thankless; 
Then  as  his  breathing  turned  to  rhythmic  sighing, 
I  found  that  I  was  crying. 

If  he  had  wakened  I  had  never  known 
A  gentle  thing  that  I  have  come  to  know. 
But  long  he  slept.    The  shadows  deepened  so 
I  almost  would  have  thought  myself  alone 
Save  that  his  courtly  deference  to  convention 
Kept  for  his  form  a  posture  of  attention. 

At  sight  of  which  I  wept  more  bitterly, 

Not  for  my  pleasure,  ruthlessly  desired; 

For  knowledge  that  he  labored  and  grew  tired 

To  light  this  hearth  and  keep  it  safe,  for  me. 
****** 

"I  dreamed  of  you,"  he  said  "I  must  have  slept. 
"I  dreamed  you  wept." 


SILENCED 

BY  WILLARD   WATTLES 

I  SOMETIMES  wonder  why  men  say 
So  very  much  of  love; 
I  sometimes  think  they  little  know 
What  they  are  talking  of, 

For  when  I  felt  your  closing  arms 

My  heart  sang  like  a  bird; 
I  lay  all  night  upon  your  breast 

And  never  spoke  a  word. 


53 


TO  YOU 

BY  BEATRICE  W.   RAVENEL 

BECAUSE  I  loved  you  not  nor  let  you  speak, 
Your  silence  in  my  memory  sings. 
Like  God,  your  patience  obstinate  and  meek, 
Waits  at  the  heart  of  things. 

A  still,  strong  purpose  you,  a  hoarded  light, 
(Against  your  day  your  watch  you  keep), 
Shadow  and  silence,  things  most  exquisite, 
The  condolence  of  sleep. 

And  when  life  falls  from  round  me,  leaves  me  stark, 
Only  a  blind  need  through  and  through, 

As  wounded  beasts  crawl  off  to  find  the  dark, 
I  know  my  way  to  you. 


54 


CONTRASTS 

BY   MARIE  LOUISE   HERSEY 

MY  studio  windows  overhead  are  black 
Save  for  the  shimmer  of  wet  lights  from  the 
street 
And  in  my  woman's  heart  a  sudden  lack, 
An  undertone  of  something  incomplete! 

0  little  human  child  here  in  the  rain 
Unlike  my  painted  miniatures  up  there — 

The  careful  workmanship  of  hand  and  brain, 
Cherubs  with  violet  eyes  and  gold-spun  hair — 

0  changing,  wistful  face  so  eager-bright 
And  restless  mouth  so  quick  to  smile  or  pout, 

1  wish  my  arms  could  gather  you  to-night 

And  hear  you  breathing  when  the  light  is  out! 


55 


MY  MOTHER 

BY  E.    MERRILL  ROOT 

MY  father  gently  took  my  hand; 
I  left  the  nursery  willingly: 
Perhaps  I  soon  should  understand 
Those  tip-toe  people,  and  why  he 
Cried  so,  and  where  mamma  could  be. 
In  mother's  room  he  dropped  my  hand. 

I  moved  to  where  my  mother  lay; 
Outside,  a  running  wind  went  by — 

It  had  been  shouting  all  the  day — 
Grey  clouds  had  dirtied  all  the  sky, 
And  all  day  I  had  longed  to  cry ; 

Somehow  I  could  not  laugh  or  play. 

Her  coverlet  was  cold  and  white, 
Her  face  was  whiter;  still  and  pale 

(Like  the  new  snow  of  yesternight) 
She  lay;  her  dear  hand — Oh  so  frail  1 
Faltered  toward  mine:    I  saw  it  fail — 

I  caught  a  snow-flake,  cold  and  light. 

Her  eyes  were  framed  in  shadows ;  they 
Were  dark,  like  purple  pansies'  eyes; 


56 


My  Mother 


"Come  close  to  me!"  they  seemed  to  pray. 

Mine  stared  back,  moist  with  vague  surprise; 

Frightened,  I  said  (big  tears  would  rise) : 
"Why  won't  you  talk  to  me  to-day?" 

My  mother  did  not  stir  or  speak 
Save  from  deep  eyes.    I  knelt;  and  she 

With  straining  fingers  touched  my  cheek. 
Outside,  I  heard  a  wrestling  tree 
Tap  at  the  window  fitfully; 

Behind  me  I  heard  floor-boards  creak. 

My  father  led  me  to  the  door, 

I  glanced  back,  very  wistfully: 
Her  eyes,  still  on  me  as  before, 

Were  like  two  arms  stretched  out  toward  me. 

And  then  we  went  out,  I  and  he, 
I  never  saw  her  any  more. 


57 


RETURN  AFTER  DEATH 

JOHN   HALL  WHEELOCK 


npO  the  old  home, 


Through  the  wild  country-ways  and  meadows 
damp, 
Lo — I  am  come: 
Drawn  are  the  blinds,  quenched  is  the  lonely  lamp 

And  dark  the  door. 

The  crickets  chirp  and  the  cicadas  sing, 

But  nevermore 

Comes  the  quick  step,  the  dear  voice  answering. 

Long  though  I  knock, 

Never  the  eager  answer  comes,  they  will 

Never  unlock — 

So  hushed  the  night,  so  deep  and  starry-still. 

Ah  fain,  how  fain — 

From  the  fierce  terror  and  the  loneliness, 

Anguish  insane 

And  dreadful  secret  that  you  may  not  guess — 

The  starry  Vast 

Inexorable  of  everlasting  law, 

Tomb  of  the  Past, 

And  endless  reaches  of  the  ancient  Awe, 


58 


Return  After  Death 


With  horrors  rife — 

Star  upon  star  forever  strewn  abroad, 

The  thrones  of  life 

In  the  dark  universe  dethroned  of  God — 

With  what  desire, 

Ah,  with  what  longing  that  you  cannot  know! 

To  the  warm  fire, 

The  cosy  hearth  and  faces  all- aglow, 

Dear  eyes  that  burn, 

The  old,  familiar  jokes  and  questions  dear, 

We,  lost,  return, 

Calling  with  voices  that  you  cannot  hear! 

Night,  deep  and  still: 

Empty,  into  the  dark,  the  windows  stare. 

A  whip-poor-will 

Cries  like  the  Past  upon  the  patient  air. 

But  where  it  lies, 

The  thing  I  was,  the  shell  of  me,  they  kneel 

With  burning  eyes, 

And  in  mute  prayer  to  the  Unknown  appeal. 

Here  on  the  shore 

And  coast  of  the  illimitable  night 

Forevermore 

Lies  the  lost  shell  and  home  of  my  delight, 


59 


Return  After  Death 


Where  passion  reigned, 

Where  ecstasy  drew  hushed  and  hurried  breath, 

Where  love  disdained 

To  stain  her  triumph  with  the  thought  of  death. 

O  pang  too  sheer 

Of  all  that  has  been  and  may  never  be  I 

Anguish  austere, 

And  wild  regret  of  all  eternity  1 


60 


IN  AN  OLD  HOUSE 

BY  WINIFRED  WELLES 

I'VE  lived  so  long  companionless 
In  this  old  house  bowed  down  with  years, 
IVe  come  to  welcome  loneliness, 

Converse  with  dreams  and  sit  with  fears. 

Often  and  often  in  the  night, 

When  I  have  laid  some  dull  book  down, 
One  comes  between  me  and  the  light 

With  terrible,  unrustling  gown. 

Wistful  as  moonlight  in  the  room, 
Her  face  sways,  luminous  with  fire 

Of  eyes  unsmothered  by  the  tomb, 
Of  lips  remembering  still  desire. 

And  there  beside  the  lute  she  stands — 

With  little  eager  flutterings 
She  stretches  out  her  pulseless  hands, 

And  only  thrusts  them  through  the  strings! 

No  way  to  bring  her  longing  near 
Who  has  no  heart  to  beat  and  break, 

Nor  any  way  that  she  can  hear 
The  sounds  her  lost  touch  can  not  make. 


61 


In  An  Old  House 


Oh  who  will  sit  here  wondering 
Some  other  night  and  watch  me  steal 

Close  to  a  loved,  familiar  thing 
With  hands  that  reach  but  do  not  feel? 


THE  RUINED  T>OBE 

BY  JENNIE   HARRIS  OLIVER 

IN  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight, 
In  the  low-hung  desert  starlight, 
Stands  an  old  forsaken  'dobe, 
Like  a  grim,  distorted  dream; 
And  its  lidless  eyes  look  westward, 
Its  low  ceiling  seeps,  and  crumbles, 
While  the  bats  hang  down  like  dusky  rags 
From  one  long  rafter-beam. 

In  the  old,  forsaken  'dobe, 
Lizards  dart,  all  green  and  golden, 
And  the  rattler  trails  its  diamond  length 
Along  the  earthen  floor. 
And  an  old,  blind,  limping  pinto, 
Fumbling,  'mong  the  rocks  and  rubble, 
In  the  fury  of  the  sand-storm 
Stumbles  through  the  gaping  door. 

In  the  old  forsaken  'dobe 
Coyotes  slink  and  barn-owls  slither, 
And  the  swoop  of  seeking  buzzard 
Haunts  the  pinon-scented  air; 
On  the  hearth  a  ruby  cactus 


63 


The  Ruined  'Dobe 


Bloom — a  strangely-twisted  candle, 
When  the  wind  from  off  the  mesa 
Makes  its  petals  flame  and  flare. 

On  a  shelf  within  the  'dobe, 
There  are  cups  of  clay,  soft-colored. 
In  a  nook,  a  cedar  cradle, 
And  a  thimble,  and  a  glove. 
While  around  the  ruins,  mountains,- 
Purpled  with  the  wine  of  shadow, — 
Cast  a  wistful  benediction 
On  the  broken  dream  of  love. 


64 


THE  RETURN 

BY  SCUDDEB   MIDDLETON 

HOLD  me,  0  hold  me,  love — your  lips  are  life! 
Here  on  your  heart  my  heart  now  understands; 
Home  have  I  come  at  last  from  alien  lands — 
A  pilgrim  through  the  darkness  to  your  eyes  I 

Hold  me,  my  love — I  know  the  answer  now, 
0  wayward,  ever  wandering  feet  of  man — 
Always  the  journey  ends  where  it  began!     .    .    . 
Out  of  my  mother's  arms  into  your  own  I 

Hold  me,  my  love,  serene  against  your  breast, 
The  sun  takes  up  the  wave  and  gives  the  rain. 
Over  the  dead  the  grass  is  green  again. 
The  lark  is  singing  on  the  ruined  wall. 


65 


FEBRUARY  TWENTY-SECOND 

BY   RAYMOND   PECKHAM    HOLDEN 

SUPPOSE  one  never  heard  of  Valley  Forge, 
And  Washington  were  nothing  but  a  name 
Cut  in  the  rock  of  some  Virginian  gorge 
Where  never  anything  but  swallows  came. 

Suppose  December  on  the  Delaware 
Had  never  known  that  bleeding,  swift  retreat. 
To-day  would  be  a  day  as  others  are 
With  less  of  colored  bunting  in  the  street. 

And  nothing  would  be  absent  from  these  trees 
Which  wait  for  April,  and  the  starling's  song 
Would  be  as  happy  and  as  harsh  as  these 
Shrill  notes  the  gray  wind  blows  along. 

And  the  careless  music  of  fast-melting  snows 
Would  ripple  in  the  gutters  and  be  gone, 
And  crocuses  would  follow,  and  the  rose 
Return,  and  the  bright  world  go  on. 


6C 


/ 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  PLOW 

BY  RUTHELE  NOVAK 

\/E  ho,  for  the  song  of  the  lark; 
«*■    For  the  spiralling  lark  with  his  song; 
With  his  full-throated  praise  so  strong  1 
Like  joy  beams  from  the  sun 
His  happy  trillings  run! 
Ye  ho,  for  the  song  of  the  lark! 

Ye  ho,  for  the  smell  of  the  loam; 

For  the  smile  of  the  new-born  day; 

For  the  little  house  over  the  way ; 

For  the  strength  to  plow 

And  the  knowledge  how! 

Ye  ho,  for  the  smell  of  the  loam! 


67 


I  STOOD  AT  TWILIGHT 

BY  BERENICE   K.   VAN   SLYKE 

I  STOOD  at  twilight  making  bread, 
Sifting  salt  and  soft  white  flour; 
I  thought  of  children  gone  to  bed 
At  this  hour; 

Gone  to  bed  with  flowers  and  bees, 
Fists  and  blossoms  curled  up  tight 
Till  candles  fail,  and  dawn  breeze 
Scatters  night. 

Through  the  windows  I  could  see 
Stars,  and  branches,  fading  day. 
To  some  one  passing  what  would  be 
The  thought  to  stay? 

Windy  branches,  starry  stair? 
Children  tumbling  into  bed? 
Or  would  it  be  my  shadow  there, 
Making  bread? 


THE  PUSH-CART 

BY  WILLIAM   ROSE  BENET 

COLORS  like  cries  of  delight  from  the  lips  of  a 
child 
Leapt  from  a  cart  by  the  curb  of  a  comer  I  passed. 
The  oars  of  a  golden  galley  dipped  swirling  through 

seas 
Of  azure  and  opal.    The  ancient  Hesperides 
Lifted  for  landfall,  and  loud  with  the  heroes  I  laughed! 

Blinded  by  blue  we  staggered  ashore  on  a  strand 
Of  golden  sand  to  the  gorgeous  gardens  their  gate, 
Where  beautiful  birds  trilled  embowered — but  bright 

in  midsward, 
Burnished  of  scale  and  claw,  crouched  Ladon,  to  guard 
The  Fruit  and  the  footing  of  maidens  that  minstreled 

its  fate. 

And,  dispersing  this  dream,  still  another, — bright  Bag- 
dad's bazaars 

With  the  slow-footed  camels  from  Yemen  that  lan- 
guidly glide, 

And,  in  turban  and  caftan,  some  retinue  of  the  viziers, 

Black  eunuchs  with  cimeters,  guards  with  their  glim- 
mering spears 

Round  the  litters  of  houris  close-veiled  to  the  harem 
who  ride 


The  Push-Cart 


Where  some  banquet  is  spread  to  bedazzle  the  eyes  of 
a  djinn, 

Where  the  hues  of  piled  peaches,  of  apricots,  pome- 
granates, plums 

And  oranges,  flicker  like  heaps  of  such  jewels  as  blazed 

From  Sinbad's  deep  Valley  of  Diamonds,  turning  him 
crazed ! 

Giant  blacks  draw  the  curtains  apart — and  the  great 
Caliph  comes! 

Old  proser  in  charge  of  your  push-cart, — ye  gods,  if 
you  knew 

The  grandeurs  of  purple  and  gold  and  rich  crimson  you 
sell 

"Two  for  five — three  for  five,"  with  a  grin  and  a  greasy 
swart  hand, 

As  you  chatter  and  shrug  with  that  boy  of  the  boot- 
blacking  stand, — 

Why,  your  button-black  eyes  would  grow  bulging! . . . . 
Perhaps  'tis  as  well ! 

You'd  be  sure  to  go  treading  on  clouds  till,  like  him  on 

the  Field 
Of  Mars,  that  a  cloud  took  and  rapt  from  the  sight  of 

his  age, 
You  were  snatched  to  Olympus,  and,  mopping  your 

oily  brown  brow, 
Wheeled  your  cart  up  the  heights  where  the  White 

Ones  abide  even  now, — 
Till,  at  sight  of  you,  gaily  they  sped  Ganymede  as  a 

page 

70 


The  Push-Cart 


And  haled  you  before  them !     Ambrosia  and  nectar 

forgot 
I  can  see  them  uprisen  as  one  all  to  pillage  your  trove. 
Now,  superb  o'er  your  overturned  cart  (having  feasted 

their  fill) 
They  are  pelting  each  other  with  splendors  adown  the 

green  hill, 
They  are  chairing  you  up  to  a  seat  between  Juno  and 

Jove! 


71 


CHALLENGE 

BY  ELEANOR  DUNCAN   WOOD 

GRIEVE  not,  Beloved,  that  nevermore  for  me 
The  wreath  of  silver  shall  to  gold  return, 
Nor  on  the  hills  my  feet  be  swift  and  free, 
Nor  in  my  cheek  May's  rapturous  roses  burn. 
Grieve  not  that  I  grow  weary  all  too  soon, 
That  my  voice  falters  like  a  child's  at  dark. 
The  Body  changes  as  the  changing  moon, 
Who  cares  what  feathers  clothe  the  meadow  lark? 

While  the  glad  heavens  to  my  eager  eyes 
Their  mysteries  of  dawn  and  dusk  unfold, 
While  just  one  bird  soars  singing  to  the  skies, 
While  just  one  daisy  bares  its  heart  of  gold, 
My  Soul,  unchanging,  shall  be  strong  to  dare, 
To  live  and  love,  and  in  God's  world  to  sing. 
I  am  as  ageless  as  the  vibrant  air, 
I  am  as  happy-hearted  as  the  Spring. 


72 


WAIF 

BY  AMANDA  BENJAMIN    HALL 

MINE  was  the  heart  no  hand  could  tame, 
And  mine  the  way  no  foot  had  been: 
I  wandered,  nude  of  any  name, 
In  palaces  of  green, 

Where  now  and  then  a  cloud  would  ply 
Its  silver  shuttle  overhead, 
Weaving  across  the  warp  of  sky 
An  iridescent  thread. 

Where  winds  betrayed  the  trusting  flowers 
To  take  from  them  all  that  was  sweet — 
Where  Day  was  mother  of  the  hours 
That  danced  with  shining  feet. 

And  evenings  at  her  darkened  door 
She'd  call  her  tired  children  home 
And  each  would  fold  its  pinafore 
And  answer  her,  "I  come." 

The  stars  were  set  to  yield  me  light 
Across  the  ceiling  of  my  room, 
And  showed  my  arms  as  swaying  white 
As  apple  boughs  in  bloom. 


73 


Waif 

I  knew  no  need  for  thatch  or  fire, 
Or  purse  to  sing  a  song  of  pence; 
I  warmed  myself  at  my  desire, 
And  paid  with  innocence. 

While  others  fingered  fork  or  spoon, 
Laughing,  I  joyed  to  feed  my  soul 
From  out  a  brimming,  amber  moon 
With  honey  in  its  bowl. 

Then,  guided  by  presentiment, 
You  turned  a  corner  of  the  air, 
Your  youth  a  garment  sadly  rent, 
All  dusty  with  despair. 

And  there  surprised  me,  undefiled, 
Defenceless  to  what  fate  befell, 
As  wild  as  autumn  leaf  is  wild, 
And  secret  as  a  well. 

To  heal  you  of  your  cynic's  pain 
Till,  like  a  pageantry  of  birds, 
Came  daring  from  your  heart  again 
Some  softly  feathered  words, — 

The  kiss  that  sealed  me  woman-grown, 
And  yet  you  dreamed  that  I  might  stay 
Ever  sequestered  and  alone, 
Child  of  the  earth  alway, — 


74 


Waif 

To  wait  your  will  through  storm  and  wind 
Deep  in  the  vocal  forest  when 
You  left  the  travelled  road  behind, 
And  lamp-lit  haunts  of  men. 

But  I — how  can  I  tell  you  lest 
Your  faith  should  fail  to  understand? 
I  who  was  wild  now  long  to  nest 
Within  your  hollow  .hand. 

Coveting  comfort  for  my  lot, 
The  rose-bright  hearth  and  shadowed  hall, 
I  find,  Beloved,  my  way  is  not 
The  wind's  way,  after  all. 

A  ribbon  for  my  hair,  a  gown 
In  which  to  languishingly  dress, 
And  four  walls  of  the  lighted  town 
To  hold  my  happiness. 

And  in  a  cradle,  great  for  pride, 
The  babe,  the  little  fairy  king, 
That,  tending,  I  should  sit  beside 
And  unto  whom  I'd  sing! 


I  guard  the  truth  you  dream  not  of; 
I  dwell  with  flower  and  star  and  tree— 
These  be  my  furniture  of  love, 
The  house  you  give  to  me. 


75 


Waif 

Yet  ever  now  by  bank  or  brook, 
I  meet  you  with  the  anguished  fear 
My  eyes  may  show  you  with  a  look 
Or  tell  you  with  a  tear. 


76 


THE  ASHMAN 

JOYCE   KILMER 

People:  An  Ashman,  a  Policeman,  a  Little  Girl  in 
Green. 

Scene:  A  city  alley.  The  ashman  is  fastening  a  nose- 
bag  on  his  horse,  which  is  harnessed  to  a  wagon 
half-filled  with  ashes.  A  policeman  is  watching 
him. 

Time:    Noon. 

Policeman:    What  do  you  feed  him?    Ashes? 

Ashman:  No,  I  don't! 

I  feed  him  Harps.    Come  over  here,  you  boob, 

And  let  him  bite  your  face,  he's  hungry ! 
Policeman:  Aw! 

You're  nothing  but  a  Harp  yourself,  you  poor 

Old  God- forsaken  ashman!    Or  a  wop, 

Or  some  fool  kind  of  foreigner. 
Ashman:  0  Hell! 

You  make  me  sick,  you  big  fat  pie-faced  mutt! 

Get  out,  you  spoil  my  horse's  appetite! 
Policeman:    I'd  hate  to  be  your  horse,  but  then  I  guess 

I'd  rather  be  your  horse  than  you.    (Exit.) 


77 


The  Ashman 


A   little  girl  in  green  appears  from  behind  the 

wagon. 
Little  Girl:  Hello! 

Ashman:    Hello  there,  kiddol    Where  did  you  come 

from? 

(Climbs  to  his  seat  on  the  wagon,  takes  out  a  tin 

pail,  and  begins  to  eat  his  lunch.) 
Little  Girl:    I  think  I'd  like  some  bread  and  butter, 

please! 
Ashman:    AH  right,  old  girl,  just  take  a  bite  of  that. 

(Tosses  his  half  loaf  down  to  her.) 
Little  Girl:    There  isn't  any  butter  on  it. 
Ashman:  No. 

I  haven't  got  no  butter.    But  it's  good, 

It's  first-rate  bread,  all  right. 
Little  Girl:     (Tossing  back  the  loaf,  from  which  she 

has  taken  a  bite.) 

Thanks  very  much!     Thanks,  Captain  Thunder! 
Ashman:  Huh? 

You're  a  queer  kid,  all  right,  and  hungry,  too, 

To  eat  dry  bread  (eats  some  of  the  bread.)    Why 

damn  my  eyes! 

God's  wounds! 

Here's   scurvy   provender.      (Throws   the   bread 

down)  And  scurvy  mirth ! 

What,  Kate!    Dear  Kate  o'  the  Green,  well  met, 
well  met, 

Slip  up  and  sit  beside  me,  lass !    It's  not 

The  first  time  you  have  been  upon  this  seat. 


78 


The  Ashman 


Little  Girl:    (Climbing  up  beside  him)    - 

No  Captain,  I  should  know  the  Royal  Mail, 
But  when  did  you  take  up  the  coaching  trade? 
I  had  as  soon  expect  to  see  old  Dick 
Throw   leg   across   your   Monmouth's   gleaming 

back, 
Thrust  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  gallop  off 
To  make  his  fortune  in  the  light  o'  the  moon, 
As  to  find  you,  the  Master  of  the  Heath, 
The  DeviPs  Treasurer,  the  Velvet  Mask, 
The  Silver  Pistoleer,  the  Winged  Thief, 
Sitting  with  down-cast  Sabbath-keeping  eyes, 
Sad  lips,  and  nose  all  fixed  for  droning  psalms, 
In  old  Dick's  place  upon  the  Royal  Mail. 
A  proper  driver  for  a  coach  and  four! 

Ashman:    Ha'  done!    God's  mercy  on  us!    Let  me 
speak, 
And  I  will  tell  you  such  a  waggery 
Will  make  you  laugh  and  split  your  pretty  sides: 
I  stole  the  Royal  Mail ! 

Little  Girl:  You  stole  the  Mail? 

Ashman:    Aye,  prigged  it,  Kate !    Why,  here  it  is,  you 
see, 
Box,  boot  and  wheels,  four  horses  and  a  whip, 
And  on  the  door  King  George's  coat  of  arms. 
All  mine,  good  lass,  all  mine.    But  for  a  price, 
A  bitter  price,  dear  Kate.    For  Monmouth's  dead! 

Little  Girl:    What,  Monmouth,  best  of  horses,  is  he 
dead? 


79 


The  Ashman 


0  Captain  Thunder,  never  tell  me  that! 
Why,  all  the  world  holds  not  another  horse 
So  glossy  black,  so  fleet,  so  wise,  so  kind! 

Ashman:     Yes,  Monmouth's  dead.     Dick  shot  him 
through  the  heart, 
And  Monmouth  dropped  without  a  whinny.    But 

1  paid  Dick  back.    0  Monmouth  is  avenged! 
Now,  hear  me,  Kate !    I  stopped  the  Royal  Mail 
Last  night  at  twelve  o'clock  at  Carter's  Cross, 
Says  I,  "Stand  now !    And  let  me  have  the  bags — 
That's  all  I  want  tonight!    Hand  over,  there!" 
Dick  pulls  his  leaders  on  their  haunches.    "Why," 
Says  he,  "It's  Captain  Thunder!    By  my  wig! 
Just  help  yourself!"    I  prigged  his  pistol  belt 
And  rode  around  to  look  inside  the  coach. 

I  got  the  bags.    The  passengers  were  three. 
My  Lord  of  Bath  and  Wells — 

Little  Girl:  A  Bishop,  what? 

Ashman:    Aye,  that  he  is ;  white  wig  and  bands  and  all. 
Yes,  he's  a  Bishop.    And  there  was  his  wife, 
(A  big  fat  monster  of  a  wife)  and  then 
There  was  a  little  wizened-looking  thing, 
A  sort  of  curate.    Well,  I  looked  at  them 
And  laughed  to  see  them  tremble  in  their  shoes. 
"Good  e'en,  my  Lord,"  says  I,  and  doffed  my  hat. 
"How  do  you  like  the  Royal  Mail?"    Says  he: 
"0  good  Sir  Highwayman,  pray  let  me  go, 
Our  coach  broke  down  at  York,  and  so  we  took 
This  public  carrier,  this  dreadful  thing, 


80 


The  Ashman 


This  Royal  Mail.    0  will  you  let  us  pass? 

I  must  get  into  Hull  by  dawn,  and  sleep, 

For  I  confirm  an  hundred  souls  at  noon." 

I  listened  to  him,  Kate,  and  did  not  see 

The  old  fox  slip  a  pistol  up  to  Dick. 

But,  bang!    Hell's  fury!    Down  fell  Monmoutfl,. 

dead. 
And  off  I  stumbled  in  the  ditch !    Well,  Kate, 
Dick  aimed  for  me,  you  see,  and  got  the  horse. 
And  I  got  Dick.    I  got  him  through  the  head. 
And  then  I  joined  the  Bishop  once  again. 
"Come  out,  my  Lord,  and  strip!"  says  I.    "What, 

strip?" 
Says  he,  and  let  his  jaw  fall  on  his  chest. 
"Yes,  strip!"  says  I,  and  pulls  his  great-coat  off: 
"Yes,  strip!"  says  I,  and  throws  his  wig  away: 
"Yes,  strip!"  says  I,  and  pulls  his  breeches  off: 
And  there  he  stands  and  shivers,  pink  and  fat. 
"Now,  Madame  Bishopess,"  says  I,  "pray  do 
Poor  Captain  Thunder  so  much  courtesy 
As  to  ride  by  him  on  the  way  to  town." 
She  screamed  and  fought,  I  took  her  in  my  arms 
And  heaved  her  up  into  the  seat.    "Now  strip!" 
I  shouted  to  the  curate.    "Yes,"  says  he, 
"I'll  strip,"  and  strip  he  did.    "Inside!"  says  I; 
They  stumbled  headlong  in,  I  cracked  my  whip 
And,  whoop!  the  Mail  went  rumbling  on  to  Hull! 
Well,  just  at  dawn  we  passed  the  Southern  Gate; 
We  galloped  down  the  street  and  made  a  halt 
Beside  the  Close.    "Here's  the  Cathedral,  dame!" 


81 


The  Ashmarii 


Says  I,  and  helped  the  lady  to  the  ground. 

"Unbar  the  door,  and  help  his  Lordship  out 

And  don't  forget  the  curate!"    How  I  laughed 

To  see  the  Bishop  and  the  curate  run 

Stark  naked,  screaming,  to  the  Chapter  House  I 

Well,  I  was  off  at  once  and  out  of  Hull 

And  never  stopped  to  breathe  the  nags  till  now. 

Little  Girl:    But,  Captain  Thunder!    Captain!    Are 
you  mad? 
They'll  have  the  country  after  you!    Be  quick! 
You  can't  make  cover  in  a  coach  and  four 
As  on  a  horse! 

Ashman:  Nay,  Kate,  rest  easy  now. 

Red  Will  is  out,  and  Davy  Doublesword, 
And  Hieland  Jock,  and  Dan  the  Drum  and  Ned, 
And  twenty  gallant  gentlemen  beside. 
And  they  have  sworn  to  keep  the  roadway  clear 
By  setting  all  the  lobsters  such  a  chase 
Will  scatter  them  till  night.    And  Ned  will  blow 
His  bugle  when  the  way  is  safe.    Then,  whoop ! 
I'll  rattle  off  again  and  fill  the  coach 
With  gentlemen  of  fortune,  comrades  true, 
And  own  the  road  from  here  to  London  town. 
(A  horn  is  heard  and  a  cry  of  "Fish,  fish,  fish,  fine 
fresh  fish!" 

Little  Girl:    Down,  Captain,  loose  the  horses!  There's 
the  call! 
(The  Ashman  gets  down,  takes  off  the  horse's 
nosebag  and  unhitches  the  horse  from  the  post.) 


82 


The  Ashman 


Ashman:    (Getting  back  on  his  seat) 

Now  Kate,  we'll  gallop  off  to  Arcady. 
Policeman:     (Suddenly  entering) 

Hello,  there,  Ashes,  who  you  talking  to? 
Ashman:    Kate  of  the  Greenwood. 
Policeman:  Kate?    You  poor  old  boobl 

You're  crazy  in  the  head.    There's  no  one  there! 
Ashman:     (Driving  off) 

Make  way  there,  constable.     (Cracks  his  whip 
and  sings.) 

Come  all  ye  jolly  rovers 

As  wants  to  hear  a  tale 
Will  make  your  hearts  as  merry 

As  a  bellyful  of  ale. 
I'll  sing  of  Captain  Thunder, 

And  his  dashing  slashing  way, 
How  he  kissed  the  queen  and  he  cuffed  the  king, 
And  threw  the  crown  away ! 

(Exit) 
Policeman:  Well,  I'll  be  damned! 


83 


THE   FREIGHT  YARDS 

BY  PHOEBE   HOFFMAN 

IN  the  long  spring  evening's  twilight,  when  the  sun  is 
setting  low, 

And  the  smoke  from  all  the  engines  flushes  up,  a  rosy- 
glow, 

Then  I  come  up  to  the  bridge-head,  watch  the  lights 
and  net- work  rails, 

Think  of  when  I  rode  the  freighters — engines  spouting 
steam  like  whales, 

D.  L.  W.,  Jersey  Central,  old  Rock  Island,  Fere  Mar- 
quette, 

Reading  coal  cars  down  from  Scranton,  piled  with 
anthracite  like  jet; 

N.  and  W.,  the  Great  Northern,  Lehigh  Valley, 
B.  and  0., 

Like  a  giant  earth-worm  twisting,  slowly  round  the 
curve  they  flow, 

Caravans  of  freight  move  westward,  bearing  eastern 
goods  away. 

To  come  back  with  hogs  and  cattle,  bales  of  sweet 
Kentucky  hay, 

Brakemen  walk  along  the  roof-tops  lingering  for  a 
moment's  chat; 

There  an  engineer,  while  smoking,  long  and  eloquently- 
spat. 

84 


The  Freight  Yards 


Wandering    life    and    care-free    rovers,    seasoned    in 

adventure  bold, 
In  the  old  caboose  at  night  time  many  a  thrilling  tale  is 

told, 
But  on  duty  in  the  winter,  when  there's  hail,  and  ice, 

and  snow, 
And  the  rails  and  roofs  are  ice-cased,  and  you  slip 

each  step  you  go, 
Or  the  melting,  boiling  summer,  when  the  blisters  lump 

the  paint, 
And  the  fierce  sun  strikes  directly,  and  you  feel  you're 

like  to  faint, 
That's  the  time  you  curse  the  life  out,  striking  for  a 

rise  in  pay, 
Say  a  dog  has  better  living,  but  you  can't  quite  get 

away, 
For  the  rugged  freedom  holds  you,  spite  of  freezing 

cold  and  sweat, 
And  the  grating,  grinding  thunder  of  the  freights  you 

can't  forget. 
L.  and  N.,  D.  L.  and  W.,  Erie,  Reading,  P.  R.  R., 
Riding  on  your  sliding  roof-tops,  that's  where  joy  and 

freedom  are! 


85 


I  WOULD   NOT  DIE   IN  APRIL 

BY  CLEMENT  WOOD 

I  WOULD  not  die  in  April, 
When  grass  and  violet  wake, 
Nor  have  your  spade  disturb  them 
For  my  sake; 

I  prize  too  much  the  comfort 

Of  all  the  pallid  shoots 
To  grub  beneath  their  confident 

Slim  roots. 

Oh,  rather  in  the  snowtime — 

That  from  the  newly  dead 
The  grass  may  forage  boldly 

In  my  head, 

And  from  my  heart  the  violet 

May  drink,  and  flame  a  blue 
Sweet  message  from  the  heart  of  God 

To  you. 


86 


SPRING  COWARDICE 

BY  LEONORA  SPEYER 

I  am  afraid  to  go  into  the  woods, 

I  fear  the  trees  and  their  mad,  green  moods. 

I  fear  the  breezes  that  pull  at  my  sleeves, 
The  creeping  arbutus  beneath  the  leaves, 

And  the  brook  that  mocks  me  with  wild,  wet  words; 
I  stumble  and  fall  at  the  voice  of  birds. 

Think  of  the  terror  of  those  swift  showers, 
Think  of  the  meadows  of  fierce-eyed  flowers! 

And  the  little  things  with  sudden  wings, 
TThat  buzz  about  me  and  dash  and  dart, 
And  the  lilac  waiting  to  break  my  heart! 

Winter,  hide  me  in  your  kind  snow, 
I  am  a  coward,  a  coward,  I  know ! 


87 


A  DEAD   MAN 

WILTON   AGNEW   BARRETT 

HE  will  not  see  the  tender  spring  again 
Rise  from  the  earth  with  strange,  perennial  grace, 
He  will  not  see  again  the  May-nights  face 
Speak  of  eternal  things  to  transient  men, 
He  will  not  stir,  with  deep  upliftings,  when 
June  laughs  for  freedom  from  our  time  and  place, — 
No,  though  her  winds  all  day  blow  out  of  space, 
He  will  not  quicken  in  his  body  then. 

And  be  his  spirit  timeless  like  a  star — 
A  burning  life  fate  can  no  more  remand — 
And  be  it  rapturous  like  the  silent  flowers, 
And  a  long  loveliness  in  springs  afar, — 
Yet  will  he  never  feel  in  that  new  land 
The  immortality  of  mortal  hours. 


88 


NOT   I 

BY   LIZETTE   WOODWORTH    REESE 

I  AM  not  healed  of  grief;  not  I, 
Nor  shall  be  till  spring  boughs  forget 
Their  poignancies  down  the  young  sky, 
In  dusks  all  violet. 

Not  I.    Not  till  the  year  has  found 
Some  other  fashion  for  the  rain 

In  old  thin  autumn  fields ;  its  sound 
Against  a  lonely  pane. 

Not  till  the  worn,  dear,  usual  things — 
Street,  house,  or  even  a  chair,  a  jar — 

Rid  them  of  all  rememberings, 
Grow  strange,  and  cold,  and  far. 

Who  plucks  my  cowslips  in  the  sun? 

Whose  step  fleets  by  the  withered  tree? 
Whose  shadowy,  golden  laughters  run 

Betwixt  my  books  and  me? 

They  have  been  gone  a  thousand  years. 

I  grant  it.    Are  the  deeps  fallen  dry? 
Wears  grief  a  look  not  that  of  tears? — 

Not  I,  indeed,  not  I. 


FUNERAL 

BY  RAYMOND   PECKHAM   HOLDEN 

IN  the  dust  with  words  they  laid  him, 
Told  the  winds  'twas  God  that  made  him; 
Him  whose  life  was  clock-told  hours 
Friends  consigned  to  future  flowers; 
Him  whose  life  was  mainly  eating 
Friends  committed  to  God's  greeting, 
Sent  him  to  immortal  rest 
In  a  mortal,  braided  vest, 
Gave  the  daily  press  his  story, 
Snuffed  his  wick  with  oratory. 
Death,  they  said,  is  a  swift  changing 
To  a  guise  of  God's  arranging. 
Life,  they  sighed,  is  something  broken, 
Death  the  only  holy  token. 

God  was  present,  and  half  heard 

But  was  busy  with  a  bird 

And  He  missed  the  declamation, 

Missed  the  body's  name  and  station, 

So  will  very  likely  leave  him 

To  the  worms,  and  worms  will  weave  him 

No  white  mask  to  make  him  holy, 

But  oblivion,  coming  slowly 


90 


Funeral 


With  this  legend  to  expound  it — 
"There  was  life — he  never  found  it — 
"He  is  dead — he'll  never  know; 
"Let  the  grasses  tell  him  so." 


91 


A  DAY  IN  MAY! 

BY   RTJTHELE  NOVAK 

IN  our  mountain  shanty 
I  cook  and  wash  and  sweep, 
I  tip  to  see  our  baby 

And  find  that  she's  asleep ! 

The  song  that's  in  my  heart 

Leaps  singing  to  my  lips! 

My  feet  go  nimbly  dancing 

On  their  many  little  trips ! 

The  fragrance  of  the  woodbine 

And  the  sweetness  of  the  rose 
Float  in  from  the  garden 

To  tantalize  my  nose! 
Oh,  you  are  young  and  I  am,  too, 

And  life  to  us  is  play, — 
For  you  love  me  and  I  love  you 

And  it's  a  day  in  May! 


92 


MAY 

BY  STEPHEN   MOYLAN  BIRD 

THE  Pan-thrilled  saplings  swayed  in  sportive  bliss, 
Longing  to  change  their  roots  to  flying  feet, 
And,  where  the  buds  were  pouting  for  Pan's  kiss, 
The  high  lark  sprinkled  music,  dewy  sweet. 

I  wandered  down  a  golden  lane  of  light, 

And  found  a  dell,  unsoiled  by  man,  untrod, 
And,  with  the  daffodil  for  acolyte, 

bared  my  soul  to  all  the  woods,  and  God.  , 


93 


TO  NARCISSUS 

BY  WINIFRED   WELLES 

1HAVE  no  beauty  that  is  all  my  own, 
No  special  loveliness  carved  out  of  me, 
No  glowing  images  wrought  perfectly, 
Splendour  of  flesh  or  delicacy  of  bone. 
I  am  a  pool,  wherein  you  shall  be  shown 
How  wonderful  and  starlike  you  can  be — 
I  am  a  mirror  so  that  you  may  see 
Yourself  most  intimately  and  alone. 
When  you  lean  to  me  and  a  dear,  swift  grace 
Sways  in  my  body,  and  my  lips  and  eyes 
Grow  suddenly  and  exquisitely  calm — 
Oh  tremble  and  look  deep  into  my  face 
And  see  your  own  there,  marvel  and  grow  wise, 
Touch  me  and  cry,  "How  beautiful  I  am!" 


94 


A  SONG  FOR  MY  FATHER 

BY  GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

BREAK  into  bloom,  my  hidden  thought! 
The  apple  trees  are  dressed  for  May, 
And  shall  their  beauty  call  you  not, 
Nor  sweetness  of  this  day? 

For  there  is  one  to  whom  belong 

Your  coral  buds  of  fancy  dim, 
And  every  bloom  of  full-blown  song 

You  can  put  on  for  him. 

Mass  all  your  boughs  with  fragrant  snow, 
That  when  he  sees  you  blossoming 

On  this  his  birthday,  he  will  know 
You  bless  him  for  your  Spring. 

Be  opulent  for  him  and  sweet: 

Thank  him  as  do  the  grateful  trees. 

Flutter  your  flowers  to  his  feet 
Like  little  melodies ! 


95 


THE  DAY  YOU  WENT 

BY  BEATRICE  W.  RAVENEL 

THE  day  you  went  my  world  was  done. 
There  came  no  comfort  from  the  sun 
Nor  from  the  love  of  life  that  lurks 
In  sunlight,  nor  from  all  the  works 
Of  faith  and  old  philosophy, — 
Till  one  young  rose  leaned  down  to  me 
And  shot  my  brooding  like  a  wing; 
The  most  foolhardy,  gallant  thing 
In  all  this  rocking  world,  conceived 
Of  morning  dew    .    .    .    and  I  believed! 
It  bannered  upward  from  the  sod 
The  visible  defence  of  God. 


96 


A   REVENANT 

BY  DOROTHY  ANDERSON 

I  ONLY  know 
Last  night  he  came  to  me, 
Just  as  he  used  to  come  before  the  days  when  war  and 

death 
Had  passed  between  us. 
Close  by  my  side  he  stood, 
His  presence  filled  the  fair  nights  solitude. 
Blue  moonlight  fell  about  him  like  a  cloak, 
And  there  was  moonlight  on  a  bed  of  hyacinths 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  love  and  youth  and  spring. 

I  felt  his  touch ; 

His  eyes  looked  into  mine; 

I  heard  his  voice  speaking  to  me 

The  words  he  spoke  before  he  went  away; 

.    .    .    "Beloved,  do  not  weep.    There  is  no  need  to 

sorrow. 
My  love  will  bring  me  back  for  many  nights  like  this — 
When  there  is  moonlight  on  the  hyacinths, 
And  the  world  is  full  of  love  and  youth  and  spring." 

And  I  wept  not. 

His  kisses  fell  upon  my  eyes 

Like  dew,  and  closed  them. 

97 


A  Revenant 


Then  slow  and  stealthily  a  mist  came  creeping  up, 
So  that  in  sudden  fear  I  reached  to  him,  I  called  him — 
But  he  had  slipped  away. 

Alone — I  was  alone. 

But  oh,  I  know  that  he  will  come 

Again,  and  yet  again — and  war  and  death 

Have  never  passed  between  us; 

And  when  he  comes,  though  snows  fall,  there  shall  be 

Moonlight  and  hyacinths, 

And  love,  and  youth,  and  spring! 


98 


TANAGER 

BY  ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 

SCARLET  Bird! 
Whence  have  you  fluttered  into  my  green  gloom, 

My  sleepy  solitude,  op  quiet  wing, 
Your  voice  unheard? 

Why  do  you  linger  there  upon  the  tree 

And  still  forbear  to  sing, 
As  if  your  message  were  a  silent  doom? 

0  torch  of  fire, 

Enkindled  at  the  flame  of  heart's  desire 
In  some  enchanted  land!    0  winged  rose, 

Blown  from  the  living  garden  of  delight! 
0  flash  of  joy, 

Deliriously  bright, 
Escaping  from  the  heart  of  some  fierce  boy 
Or  maid  who  thrills  and  glows! 
0  dream  incarnadine 

Out  of  the  jeweled  past;  red  rapture  that  was  minel 

Why  sent  to  torture  me? 

You  cut  the  shadow  like  an  open  wound; 

The  forest  bleeds  with  your  intensity, 
In  a  mysterious  anguish,  unrelieved  by  sound. 

And  when  you  flit  away, 

Back  to  your  radiant  realm,  your  vivid  day, 
And,  shivering,  I  shall  gaze 


Tanager 


Down  the  dim  alley,  empty  of  your  blaze, 
The  darkness  will  be  darker  than  of  yore, 
The  silence  stiller  than  it  was  before. 

Then  faded  peace  will  brood, 
A  moment  stirred, 

In  the  transfigured  wood, 
O  Scarlet  Bird! 


100 


»••    ,    ,     . .....   »>j  »    »  >   . 


MY  GARDEN   IS  A  PLEASANT   PLAGE 

BY  LOUISE  DRISCOLL 

MY  garden  is  a  pleasant  place 
Of  sun  glory  and  leaf  grace. 
There  is  an  ancient  cherry  tree 
Where  yellow  warblers  sing  to  me, 
And  an  old  grape  arbor  where 
A  robin  builds  her  nest,  and  there 
Above  the  lima  beans  and  peas 
She  croons  her  little  melodies, 
Her  blue  eggs  hidden  in  the  green 
Fastness  of  that  leafy  screen. 
Here  are  striped  zinnias  that  bees 
Fly  far  to  visit ;  and  sweet  peas, 
Like  little  butterflies  newborn, 
And  over  by  the  tasseled  corn 
Are  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks, 
And  pink  and  yellow  four-o'clocks. 
Here  are  humming  birds  that  come 
To  seek  the  tall  delphinium, 
Songless  bird  and  scentless  flower 
Communing  in  a  golden  hour. 

There  is  no  blue  like  the  blue  cup 
The  tall  delphinium  holds  up, 
Not  sky,  nor  distant  hill,  nor  sea, 
Sapphire,  nor  lapis-lazuli. 

101  V 


tel;**i  ; 


My  Garden  Is  a  Pleasant  Place 

My  lilac  trees  are  old  and  tall, 
I  cannot  reach  their  bloom  at  all. 
They  send  their  perfume  over  trees 
And  roofs  and  streets,  to  find  the  bees. 

I  wish  some  power  would  touch  my  ear 

With  magic  touch,  and  make  me  hear 

What  all  the  blossoms  say,  and  so 

I  might  know  what  the  winged  things  know. 

I'd  hear  the  sunflower's  mellow  pipe, 

"Goldfinch,  goldfinch,  my  seeds  are  ripe!" 

I'd  hear  the  pale  wisteria  sing, 

"Moon  moth,  moon  moth,  Ym  blossoming!" 

I'd  hear  the  evening  primrose  cry, 
"0,  firefly!    Come,  firefly!" 
And  I  would  learn  the  jeweled  word 
The  ruby-throated  hummingbird 
Drops  into  cups  of  larkspur  blue, 
And  I  would  sing  them  all  for  you! 

My  garden  is  a  pleasant  place 
Of  moon  glory  and  wind  grace. 
0,  friend,  wherever  you  may  be, 
Will  you  not  come  to  visit  me? 
Over  fields  and  streams  and  hills, 
Pll  pipe  like  yellow  daffodils, 
And  every  little  wind  that  blows 
Shall  take  my  message  as  it  goes. 


102 


My  Garden  Is  a  Pleasant  Place 

A  heart  may  travel  very  far 

To  come  where  its  desires  are. 

0,  may  some  power  touch  your  ear, 

And  grant  me  grace,  and  make  you  hear  I 


103 


w 


MY  SOUL  IS  A  MOTH 

BY  DOROTHY  ANDERSON 

00  me  not  tonight,  0  my  lover; 
Not  tonight — for  my  soul  is  not  here! 


My  soul  is  a  moth 

And  the  dusk  is  my  lover. 

In  the  hush  of  the  shadows 

We  tryst,  and  we  listen — 

Breathless — we  listen 

To  the  far-blown  secrets  of  night. 

O  fragrant-blown  secrets! 

They  are  hid  in  the  petals  of  moonflowers, 

In  the  low,  singing  rhythm  that  stirs  through  the 

leaves, 
In  soft,  elfin  laughter, 
And  in  the  whirring  of  bats'  wings. 

Little  star-birds  are  splashing 

Their  silver  feathers  in  puddles  of  dew. 

There  is  a  gold  bowl  in  heaven, 
Half-tipped,  and  spilling  its  honey 
In  long,  luscious  streaks  upon  the  black  grass; 
And  we  sip 

104 


My  Soul  Is  a  Moth 


Until  we  are  steeped  in  it, 

Until  we  are  faint  with  it, 

With  the  beauty  and  sweet  of  it — 

0  bear  with  the  heavy- winged  vagrant 
My  moth-soul,  my  lover; 
Woo  me  not  tonight, 
Not  tonight  1 


105 


I 


THREE   SONGS   FOR  E. 

BY  SARA  TEASDALE 
I 

GRAY  EYES 

IT  was  April  when  you  came 
The  first  time  to  me, 
And  my  first  look  in  your  eyes 
Was  like  my  first  look  at  the  sea. 

We  have  been  together 

Four  Aprils  now, 
Watching  for  the  green 

On  the  swaying  willow-bough; 

Yet  whenever  I  turn 

To  your  gray  eyes  over  me, 

It  is  as  though  I  looked 

For  the  first  time  at  the  sea. 

II 
MEADOWLARKS 

N  the  silver  light  after  a  storm, 


Under  dripping  boughs  of  bright  new  green, 
I  take  the  low  path  to  hear  the  meadowlarks, 
More  proud  and  high  hearted  than  if  I  were  a  queen. 


106 


Three  Songs  For  E. 


What  have  I  to  fear  in  life  or  death, 

Who  have  known  three  things :  the  kiss  in  the  night, 
The  white  flying  joy  when  a  song  is  born, 

And  meadowlarks  whistling  in  silver  light. 

Ill 
THE  NET    . 

I  MADE  you  many  and  many  a  song, 
Yet  never  one  told  all  you  are — 
It  was  as  though  a  net  of  words 
Were  flung  to  catch  a  star; 

It  was  as  though  I  curved  my  hand 
And  dipped  sea-water  eagerly, 
Only  to  find  it  lost  the  blue 
Deep  splendor  of  the  sea. 


107 


DUSK  IN  THE   GARDEN 

BY  GRACE   HAZARD   CONKLING 

THIS  stillness  made  of  azure 
And  veiled  with  lavender, 
Must  be  my  daylight  garden 
Where  all  the  pigeons  were! 

Blue  dusk  upon  my  eyelids, 
Your  elfin  whims  disclose 

The  moth  that  is  a  flower, 
The  wings  that  are  a  rose. 

Make  haste,  exhale  your  sweetness 
For  you  must  vanish  soon: 

The  garden  will  forget  you 
At  rising  of  the  moon. 

A  glory  dawns  predestined 

Of  old  to  banish  you 
And  bind  you  fast  with  rainbows 

In  dungeons  of  the  dew. 

And  who  will  then  remember 
Your  cool  and  gossamer  art? 

Ah,  never  moon  may  exile 
Your  beauty  from  my  heart! 

108 


RONDELS   OF  LOMALAND 

BY  KENNETH   MORRIS 

THE  RAIN 

GOD  is  in  this  gray,  pensive  rain; 
It  is  his  mystic  inmost  mood; 
He  has  some  old  sweet  thought  to  brood, 
Too  curious  for  joy  or  pain. 
Keep  your  heart  hushed!    You'll  get  no  gain 

Of  anxious  prayers  and  strivings  crude 
While  God  is  busy  with  the  rain    .    .    . 

Some  secrecy,  occult,  arcane,' 
Holds  its  swift-drifting  multitude; 
It  hurries  through  the  quietude 

Whispering  so  silverly     .     .    .     It's  plain 

To  me  that  God  is  in  the  rain, 
And  in  his  inmost  mystic  mood. 

NOON   ON   THE  HILLSIDE 

YON  wizard  Sun-god  dreamed  of  old 
This  glowing  sage-brush  solitude 
All  silver-green  and  turkis-hued, 
With  lilac  shadows  manifold. 


109 


Rondels  of  Lomaland 


These  ragged  blue-gums,   sun-ensouled, 
On  some  antique  enchantment  brood; 

Yon  wizard  Sun-god  dreamed  of  old 
This  glowing  sage-brush  solitude. 

There's  nothing  human  to  behold, 
Nor  aught  mortality-imbued; 
God  in  his  grand  alchemic  mood 
Melts  earth  to  dim,  aerial  gold — 
Yon  wizard  God  that  dreamed  of  old 
This  glowing  sage-brush  solitude. 


THE   FLOWERS 

I  COULD  well  spend  a  thousand  years 
Just  worshipping  and  praising  you, 
That  wonder  have,  and  honeydew, 
For  our  crass  passion,  speech  and  tears. 
Your  meditations  soar  in  spheres 

No  saint  of  ours,  nor  poet,  knew; 
Sweet,  I  could  spend  ten  thousand  years 
Just  worshipping  and  praising  you! 

For  you,  I  guess,  have  eyes  and  ears 
For  all  God  broods  beyond  the  blue ; 
And  what  the  plumed  archangels  do 

You  dream,  and  have  no  hopes  nor  fears. 

Oh  that  I  had  a  million  years, 
Sweet,  to  give  all  to  praise  of  you! 


110 


Rondels  of  Lomaland 


EVENING   OVER  FALSE   BAY 

WHEN  the  dove-wings  of  Evening  dimmed 
The  quiet  world  to  blue  and  grey, 
Between  the  tree-trunks,  far  away 
On  that  soft  gloom  a  marvel  gleamed: 
The  pearl  and  turkis  waters  rimmed 
With  lights  vermeil  and  golden  gay 
Where  the  dove-wings  of  Evening  dimmed 
The  quiet  world  to  blue  and  grey. 

Twas  like  some  Feast  of  Lanterns,  limned 
By  wizard  painters  in  Cathay, 
Some  palace  in  the  Realms  of  Fay 
That  Sinbad  or  Aladdin  dreamed 
When  the  dove  wings  of  Evening  dimmed 
The  quiet  world  to  blue  and  grey. 

A  MORNING   IN   SEPTEMBER 

PEARL-PALE  from  some  dim  Paradise 
She  wanders  speechless,  sibylline, 
By  ghostly  coastlines  half  unseen — 
Dim  shores,  wan  seas,  and  grey,  pale  skies. 
Tiptoe,  and  hushed  with  mysteries 

Unwhisperable — aloof  of  mien, 
Pearl-pale  from  some  dim  Paradise 
She  wanders,  speechless,  sibylline. 

Grey  Druidess  of  the  dreaming  eyes, 
You  give  no  gold  for  Summer's  green, 
Nor  deck  the  trees  in  passing  sheen 


111 


Rondels  of  Lomaland 


Of  gilt  and  carmined  heraldries; 
Pearl-pale  from  some  dim  Paradise 
You  wander  speechless,  sibylline! 


PAMPAS-GRASS 

THEY  had  some  secret  news  to  tell, 
The  plume-blooms  of  the  pampas-grass, 
They  held  me,  that  I  might  not  pass, 
With  some  sun-sweet,  scarce-whispered  spell. 
About  some  faery  miracle, 
Or  the  hidden  wealth  the  Gods  amass, 
They  surely  had  strange  news  to  tell    .    .    . 

But  I  was  moidered  with  the  swell 
Of  common  thought; — had  not,  alas  I 
Fasted  of  words  since  Martinmas 

As  they  had ;  and  I  heard  not  well 

The  unusual  news  they  had  to  tell, 

Those  plumes  and  blooms  of  pampas-grass. 


112 


KATHLEEN 

BY  BERNARD   RAYMUND 

SO  calm,  so  still,  with  eyes  so  far  away 
She  sits  unheedful  of  the  clanging  throng, 
Only  her  slender,  white7gloved  fingers  play 
About  the  lilac  in  her  lap;  old  song, 
Old  unremembered  wisps  of  music  float 
To  kiss  the  clinging  fragrance  at  her  lips. 
And  there's  a  sudden  catching  in  her  throat 
For  the  sight  of  channel  water  as  it  slips 
Up  a  dear  shore,  for  clambering  roads  that  wind 
In  dusty  indolence  from  hill  to  hill, 
The  hedgerow  all  in  blossom,  ditches  blind 
With  gold  a  million  buttercups  let  spill. 
Full  of  the  wonder  spring  has  brought  to  pass 
Once  more  she  runs  barefooted  thru  the  grass. 


113 


TO   DANCE! 

BY   MARGARET  B.    MCGEE 

I  WANT  to  dance! 
When  the  sun  catches  the  aspen  leaves 
They  dance; 

When  it  flecks  the  grasses  and  mottles  the  streams 
They  dance; 

When  the  dark  storm  bends  the  black  branches 
And  the  wind  whips  up  the  waves 
They  dance; 

The  birds  swing  on  the  elm  twig, 
The  sap  races  in  the  tree, 
Horses  run  in  the  pasture, 
Mist  fairies  glide  to  and  fro  in  the  valley, 
Cloud  children  play  in  heaven, 
The  stars  sing  and  dance, 
And  I  want  to  dance! 

I  can  be  rain  drops. 

I  can  be  leaves  and  bending  grasses, 

Gold  mottled  streams  and  running  horses, 

Racing  sap  and  the  hidden  heart  of  flowers. 

I  can  be  fire  light  and  moon  light, 

A  child  of  the  night  mist  and  a  sister  of  the  stars. 

All  the  world  sings  and  dances, 

And  I  am  a  child  of  all  the  world.    I  want  to  sing, 

and — 
I  want  to  dance! 

114 


FOREST  DANCE 

BY   MARY   CAROLYN   DAVIES 

I  SHALL  dance  in  the  forest, 
And  all  my  dancing  shall  be  for  you — 
For  you,  who  are  very  far  away. 

The  wind  shall  make 

A  tune  for  my  feet. 
It  must  be  low; 

It  must  be  sweet — 
For  it  is  for  you, 

Sweeter,  lower; 

A  little  slower — 

Now  I  raise  my  foot  and  knee; 
And  spurn  the  ground;  and  leap;  and  see 
The  sky  like  a  scarf  to  strain  to,  touch, 
Feel,  and  be  part  of,  and  claim,  and  clutch, 
And  wave,  in  my  dance ! 

Wind !    Louder !    Faster ! 

Be  confusion!    Be  disaster! 
Now  I  crouch,  and  now  I  run, 
And  dance,  and  dance,  and  catch  the  sun 
In  one  outstretched  arm,  and  fling  it  high 
Back,  against  the  wall  of  the  air! 
Now  it  is  caught  in  the  scarf  I  wear! 
Now  it  is  caught  in  my  scarf,  the  sky, 

115 


Forest  Dance 


Like  a  jewelled  pin,  like  a  yellow  stone! 

It,  too,  is  my  own! 

Now  I  shall  trail  my  scarf,  and  tread 

A  stately  march,  and  droop  my  head, 

Mimicking  flowers,  and  they  will  all 

Tremble  with  anger.    I  shall  let  fall 

My  scarf,  and  now  I  shall  dance  the  word 

That  is  in  my  heart  when  I  think  of  you. 

(It  is  a  burning  word,  and  holy. 

It  is  like  a  wakened  bird.) 

Wild,  and  mad  is  my  dance!    I  turn 

Swaying,  trembling,  like  a  tree, 

Like  a  tree  that  starts  to  burn 

In  a  forest,  that  feels  the  fire  creep  slowly 

Up  its  branches,  into  its  bark, 

And  sees  its  own  smoke,  like  a  dark 

Cloud  that  shuts  it  out  from  the  known 

Trees  with  whom  it  has  leaved  and  grown. 

Caught  in  flames,  it  shivers  to  see 

Itself  a  flame,  that  was  a  tree! 

So  I  dance!    Wind,  sing,  sing! 
Louder,  wilder,  faster  fling 
Down  your  music!    I  drop  the  sky 
Beneath  my  feet,  and  I  tread  it  under. 
I  hold  my  cupped  hands,  full  of  wonder, 
High,  high— 

I  dance  in  the  forest, 

And  all  my  dancing  is  for  you, 
Who  are  far  away,  and  will  never  know. 


116 


THE   FIDDLER 

BY  EDNA  VALENTINE   TRAPNELL 

DONAL  o'  Dreams  has  no  bed  for  his  sleeping, 
No  gold  in  his  keeping,  no  glove  for  his  hand ; 
But  the  birds  understand  his  wild  music's  leaping 

And  the  children  follow  his  fiddle's  command. 
He  is  sib  to  the  winds  and  the  wandering  streams 
And  the  stars  are  the  kinsfolk  of  Donal  o'  Dreams. 

When  day  goes  over  the  edge  of  the  dark 
The  grandsires  hark  to  his  songs  of  old, 

And  on  dreams  of  gold  do  the  lads  embark 
While  the  lassies  beckon  him  in  from  the  cold 

But  he's  heeding  no  hearth  where  the  firelight  gleams 
For  the  Voices  are  calling  to  Donal  o'  Dreams. 

Playing  o'  nights  by  the  fairy  rings 

The  brown  fiddle  swings  a  dancing  song; 

Nor  right  nor  wrong  in  the  music  sings — 
(0,  the  light  feet  whirling  the  leaves  along!) 

Soulless  as  moon's  light  and  soft  as  her  beams 
Sounds  the  fairy  music  of  Donal  o'  Dreams. 

Gold  cannot  stay  him  nor  maidens'  sigh — 
Stars  fleck  the  skies  or  the  fiddle's  croon 


117 


The  Fiddler 


Softens  the  noon  on  his  way  that  lies 

To  the  East  of  the  Sun  and  the  West  of  the  Moon — 
Always  in  search  of  that  Land  he  is  roaming 

And  he  follows  its  Gleam  from  the  dawn  to  the 
gloaming. 


118 


THE   DANGER   IN   THE   SHRINE 

BY  AMANDA  BENJAMIN   HALL 

I  AM  a  dancer.    When  I  pray 
I  do  not  gather  thoughts  with  clumsy  thread 
Into  poor  phrases.    Birds  all  have  a  way 
Of  singing  home  the  truth  that  they  are  birds, 
And  so  my  loving  litany  is  said 
Without  the  aid  of  words. 
I  am  a  dancer.    Under  me 
The  floor  dreams  lapis  lazuli, 
With  inlaid  gems  of  every  hue — 
Mother  o'  pearl  I  tread  like  dew, 
While  at  the  window  of  her  frame 
Our  Lady,  of  the  hallowed  name, 
Leans  on  the  sill.    Gray  saints  glare  down, 
Too  long  by  godliness  entranced, 
With  piety  of  painted  frown, 
Who  never  danced    .     .    . 
But  Oh,  Our  Lady's  quaint,  arrested  look 
Remembers  when  she  danced  with  bird  and  brook, 
Of  wind  and  flowers  and  innocence  a  part, 
Before  the  rose  of  Jesus  kissed  her  heart 
And  men  heaped  heavy  prayers  upon  her  breast. 
She  watches  me  with  gladness  half  confessed 
Who  dare  to  gesture  homage  with  my  feet, 
Or  twinkle  lacey  steps  of  joy 


119 


The  Dancer  In  the  Shrine 


To  entertain  the  Holy  Boy; 
Who,  laughing,  pirouette  and  pass, 
Translated  by  the  colored  glass, 
To  meanings  infinitely  sweet. 
And  though  it  is  not  much,  I  know, 
To  fan  the  incense  to  and  fro 
With  skirt  as  flighty  as  a  wing, 
It  seems  Our  Lady  understands 
The  method  of  my  worshipping, 
The  hymns  I'm  lifting  in  my  hands 
I  am  a  dancer    .    .    . 


120 


FIRE-WEED   IN   THE   FOREST 

BY  JULIAN   M.  DRACHM  AN 

FROM  among  deep  mosses 
That  cushion  the  twisted  roots  of  the  wood, 
It  springs — the  ragged  weep!  with  burning  blossoms. 
And,  if  you  look  for  it,  the  cloistered  dimness 
Under  pine  boughs,  thick-thatched  eternally, 
Is  pierced  in  myriads  of  places 
By  these  tiny  sparks,  these  flashes  of  cool  flame. 

If  there  were  a  God  of  Fire, 

His  home  would  be  the  forest. 

In  the  most  secret  chamber  of  the  oak  woods, 

To  which  the  light  of  true  day  never  penetrates, 

He  would  lurk  all  year,  and  growl  and  grumble  to 

himself. 
In  August,  when  hares  lie  panting  in  their  burroughs, 
How  terrible  he  would  stalk  abroad; 
Touching  the  dry  tree-trunks  with  his  fingers! 
How  he  would  rush,  roaring  through  the  woods, 
Sweeping  his  red  banners  among  crackling  branches ! 

Then,  if  he  but  glanced  down 

And  saw  the  beautiful  mockery  at  his  feet, 

Mimicking  him; 

The  fire-weed,  lighting  the  forest  floor  with  loveliness 


121 


Fire-Weed  In  the  Forest 


As  he  was  lighting  its  vaulted  roof  with  horror- 
Would  he  not  shrink  back? 
Would  he  not  feel  within  himself  how  mean 
And  how  absurd  a  thing  is  fear  fulness; 
How  divine  is  beauty; 
What  an  all-mighty  revealer  of  truth 
Laughter  can  be? 


122 


COURAGE,   MON  AMI! 

BY  WILLARD  WATTLES 

OH,  it  is  good  to  camp  with  the  spirit, 
Oh,  it  is  jaunty  to  walk  with  the  mind, 
When  the  soul  sees  all  the  future  to  share  it 
Knowing  the  road  that  stretches  behind. 

Courage,  my  comrade,  the  devil  is  dying! 

Here's  the  bright  sun  and  a  cloud  scudding  free; 
The  touch  of  your  hand  is  too  near  for  denying, 

And  laughter's  a  tavern  sufficient  for  me. 

Hang  your  old  hat  on  the  smoke-mellowed  rafter, 
Strike  an  old  song  on  your  crazy  guitar; 

Hey,  hustle,  old  lady,  it's  heaven  we're  after — 
God,  but  I'm  glad  we  can  be  what  we  are! 


123 


HA!   HA! 

BY  WILLARD  WATTLES 

I  THOUGHT  Joy  went  by  me, 
I  thought  Love  was  dead — 
They  did  it  but  to  try  me; 
Laughingly  Love  said: 

"We  are  crazy  fellows, 
All  the  roads  we  roam; 

When  you  come  to  find  us, 
We  are  not  at  home. 

"Then  some  winter  evening 

We  will  straggle  in, 
Set  the  rafters  rocking 

With  the  old  familiar  din. 

"Stay  not  hands  to  hold  us 
When  we're  bowsed  and  fed, 

We  are  crazy  fellows,"     .     .     . 
Laughingly  Love  said. 


124 


JOY  O'  LIVING 

BY  AMANDA  BENJAMIN   HALL 

HE  came  with  roses  in  his  mouth, 
And  kindling  rubies  in  each  vein, 
Like  perfume  of  the  scented  south 

Through  flying  arrows  of  the  rain, 
And  on  his  goat-heels  sat  and  played 
Till  we  were  charmed  yet  half  afraid! 

And  dogs  and  sheep  and  gentle  things 
Crept  near,  and  very  shy  and  sweet 

A  butterfly,  on  painted  wings, 
Alighted  softly  at  his  feet, 

And  hearing  him  the  great  god  Pan 
Grew  feeble  as  an  old,  old  man. 

His  antics  were  so  proud  and  free, 
His  smiles  so  wilful  and  so  rare 

He  should  have  worn  eternity 
As  jewels  in  his  grape-dark  hair; 

And  yet  the  burden  of  his  song 
Was  that  he  could  not  linger  long! 

The  clouds,  a  white-robed  pilgrim  lot, 
Came  gathering  at  once  they  saw 


125 


Joy  0'  Living 


Our  little  tangled  human  knot 
Attentive  to  his  oaten  straw, 

Till  all  on  tiptoe  they  withdrew 
And  let  the  moon  adventure  through. 

Through  evening's  iridescent  mist 
He  saw  me  once  and  followed  far ; 

I  would  that  he  had  caught  and  kissed 
And  set  me  like  a  burning  star 

To  cool  in  some  blue  distant  place 
Till  death  or  dawn  should  find  my  face. 


126 


RENDEZVOUS 

BY  LEONORA  SPEYER 


B' 


Wrapt  in  a  shadowed  harmony 
Of  leaves  and  buds  and  crinkly  moss, 
Above  me  tangled  green  will  toss, 
And  all  about, 
Unfurled  for  me, 
Uncurled  for  me, 
The  fern's  unhurried  rout: 
But  one  more  month — so  soon — 
Wait  for  me,  June,  my  J[une! 

The  birds,  live  cups  of  singing  wine, 

On  their  tall  stems  of  larch  and  pine, 

Will  brim  for  me  the  glad  day  long 

The  comfort  of  their  bubbling  song; 

The  nightingale 

Will  trill  for  me, 

Will  spill  for  me, 

Her  shy,  exultant  grail: 

But  one  more  month — so  soon — 

Wait  for  me,  June,  my  June ! 

Bring  me  your  revelling  fields  and  woods, 
Your  hills  and  lakes  of  solemn  moods, 

127 


Rendezvous 


Gather  the  stars,  fresh-plucked  and  sweet, 

Scatter  them  wide  where  we  two  meet! 

I  bring  to  you, 

Still  near  to  me 

Still  dear  to  me, 

My  ancient  grief,  still  new: 

But  one  more  month — so  soon — 

Wait  for  me,  June,  my  June! 


128 


THE  NATURALIST   ON  A  JUNE 
SUNDAY 

BY  LEONORA  SPEYER 

MY  old  gardener  leans  on  his  hoe, 
Tells  me  the  way  that  green  things  grow; 
"Goin'  to  church?    Why  no. 
All  nature's  church  enough  for  me!" 

Says  he. 

"Preachin'  o'  flower  and  choir  o'  bird, 

An'  the  wind  passin'  the  plate — 

Sweetest  service  that  ever  /  heard, 

That's  straight!  * 

Eternal  Rest? 

What  for,  friend? 

Gimme  a  swarm  o'  bees  to  tend, 

A  honey-makin',  world  without  end, 

That's  what  I'd  like  the  best! 

(Scoop  'em  right  up  an'  find  the  queen, 

They'd  not  sting  me — the  bees  ain't  mean!) 

"Heaven's  all  right! 
But  still  I  guess  I'll  kinder  miss 
The  Lady  Lunar  moth  at  night 
And  the  White  Wanderer  butterfly 
Crawlin'  out  of  its  crysalis ! 


129 


The  Naturalist  On  a  June  Sunday 

I  want  my  heaven  human  too, 

'Twixt  me  an'  you — 

Why  I'd  jus'  love  to  see 

A  chipmunk  hop  up  to  the  Lord 

An'  eat  right  out  o'  His  dread  Hand 

Same  as  it  does  to  me! 

Eternity — eternity — 

Don't  it  sound  grand? 

But  say 

What's  the  matter  with  today? 

Just  step  into  the  wood  an'  take  a  look! 

Ain't  that  a  page  o'  teachin'  from  the  Holy  Book? 

'He  that  hath  eyes  to  see 

An'  ears  to  hear' — 

That's  good  enough  for  me! 

I  guess  God's  pretty  near, 

He'll  understand,  I  know, 

Why  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  let  June  go!" 

My  old  gardener  turns  to  his  hoe, 
Helping  the  green  things  how  to  grow, 
"The  Misses  can  go  to  church  for  me! 
Amen!"  says  he. 


130 


WEEK-END   SONNETS 

BY  JOHN   FRENCH  WILSON 
I. 

COME  out  to  our  house  any  week-end  in  June, 
When  dandelions  riot  in  the  grass: 
And  drink  the  yellow  floods  of  afternoon, 

Poured  from  a  sky  of  blue  and  quivering  glass. 
Go  through  the  arbor  where  the  ramblers  mass 

In  crimson  flame  against  white  lattices : 
Open  the  easy  swinging  gate,  and  pass 

Beneath  the  birch,  between  the  maple  trees 
With  tops  a-tremble  in  the  south-west  breeze: 

Follow  along  the  curving  gravel  walk 
Up  to  the  terrace  top,  where,  as  you  please, 

Tobacco,  high  adventure,  casual  talk, 
And  journey's  end  await,  if  you  are  one 

Who  would  live  much  and  quietly,  in  the  sun. 

II. 

The  easy  swinging  gate  you  entered  through 
.  Has  worn  and  rusty  hinges ;  but  they  creak 
A  little  song  of  welcoming  to  you, 

Sung  in  the  only  language  they  can  speak. 
They  know  the  gladdest  day  of  all  the  week, 

And  count  upon  it,  even  as  you  and  I. 


131 


Week-End  Sonnets 


Their  Monday  morning  voice  is  but  a  squeak; 

Somehow  they  cannot  learn  to  sing  "Goodbye." 
You  may  not  think  such  knowingness  can  lie 

In  rusted  hinges  of  an  arbor  gate ; 
But  everywhere  in  earth  and  air  and  sky 

Alluring  undiscovered  wonders  wait, 
And  high  adventure  lurks;  and  splendor  clings 

In  trivial  and  unsought-after  things. 

III. 

On  Sunday  morning  you  may  go  to  church 

In  any  way  you  please,  or  not  at  all. 
There  is  a  stately  one  beneath  our  birch, 

A  lowlier  one  out  by  the  garden  wall: 
Methodist,  Catholic,  Episcopal, 

Are  all  within  an  easy  morning's  stroll; 
But  if  these  venerable  creeds  appal, 

A  garden  spade  may  benefit  your  soul; 
Or  some  eternal  verity  unroll 

As  you  spread  paint  upon  the  kitchen  screens, 
Or  fix  fresh  cut  nasturtiums  in  a  bowl, 

Or  hold  communion  with  the  lima  beans. 
Or  you  may  put  your  clean  white  flannels  on 

And  meet  it  as  you  ramble  through  the  lawn. 

IV. 

But  do  not  make  a  desperate  search  for  God 

Lest  you  offend  his  quiet  dignity. 
The  week-end  is  no  time  to  pant  or  plod 

The  rock-strewn  roads  of  any  Calvary. 


132 


Week-End  Sonnets 


It  is  a  time  to  live  in  the  sun,  and  see 

Your  favorite  god  by  glimpses,  everywhere. 
I  find  him  lurking  quite  persistently 

In  our  young  daughter's  laugh,  and  in  her  hair; 
And  if  the  baby  smiles,  he  lingers  there: 

But  when  the  baby  cries,  he  understands 
And  straightway  slips  without  offense  or  care 

Into  my  wife's  brown  eyes  and  her  white  hands; 
And  many  a  moonlight  night  in  fall  he  comes 

To  dance  among  the  Ted  chrysanthemums. 


133 


FISHING 

BY   MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 

THE  days  that  I'd  go  fishing, 
I  would  wake  before  the  dawn, 
The  moon  a  little  lip  of  gold 
Above  a  silver  lawn, 
Where  in  a  velvet  pool  of  trees, 
A  gray  mist  hung,  unstirred  by  breeze, 
Or  any  sound,  so  patiently 
The  world  bore  night,  it  seemed  to  me. 

The  house  was  silent  to  my  feet, 
Beneath  a  tiptoe  tread, 
And  I  could  see  behind  each  door, 
Calm  in  a  white-paned  bed, 
An  aunt,  with  high  patrician  nose, 
An  uncle  carmined ;  there  arose 
A  smell  of  matting  on  the  air, 
Sober  and  cooling  everywhere. 

Straight  through  the  kitchen  past  the  cat 

Who  blinked  with  eyes  of  gold, 

And  yawned  with  infinite  contempt, 

For  sleep  is  ever  new,  and  old 

Is  fishing;  on  the  Nile, 

Once  with  mysterious  feline  guile, 

Were  caught  bright  fins  of  other  days, 

In  temple-shadowed  moonlit  bays. 

134 


Fishing 


The  cat,  the  stove,  an  opened  door 

Upon  a  miracle  of  sun! 

0  for  the  dew  upon  the  grass! 

0  for  the  feet  that  dance  and  run! 
And  in  the  maples'  tiptop  spires 

A  bursting  song  of  passionate  choirs! 

1  think  that  morning's  finest  joys 
Are  saved  for  little  fishing  boys. 

Where  trout  lie  there  are  white,  white  stones, 

With  running  water  over; 

And  half  the  air  is  made  of  mint, 

And  half  is  made  of  clover; 

And  slow  clouds  come  and  go  and  sail, 

Like  giant  fish  with  lazy  tail. 

A  stream  runs  out  a  fine  spun  song, 
From  shadowy  pools  to  laughter; 
A  wood-song  with  a  chorus  in, 
And  a  lilt,  and  a  chuckle  after; 
For  little  waves  with  sunlight  in 
Are  like  plucked  notes  of  a  violin; 
While  through  the  mist  of  melodies, 
Is  ever  the  motif  of  the  breeze. 

Some  find  bird  caroling  sweet  at  dawn, 

And  some,  more  sweet  at  noon, 

But  fishing  boys  like  dusk,  I  think, 

For  there's  a  hush,  that  soon, 

When  evening  sends  you  homeward  bound, 


135 


Fishing 


Turns  every  field  to  tremulous  sound, 
Where  thrush  and  owl  and  meadow  lark 
Chant  to  the  coming  of  the  dark. 

The  nights  when  I'd  been  fishing, 
Were  always  very  still, 
Save  for  a  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
A  distant  whip-poor-will; 
And,  in  a  sky  of  velvet-blue, 
The  stars  were  golden  fishes,  too; 
Swam  slowly,  swam  into  a  dream 
Of  white  stones  and  a  running  stream. 


136 


INLAND 

BY  FRANCES  DICKENSON   PINDER 

A  KEEN  wind,  a  live  wind, 
A  blithe  wind,  gallant,  free, 
Blows  laughing,  singing,  sailing  in, 
Careening  in,  from  sea. 

The  calm  wood,  the  staid  field, 
The  uneventful  vale — 
What  know  they  of  blue  magic  or 
Slant  sunlight  on  a  sail? 

And  yet  when  the  night  wind 
Sets  seaward  sweet  with  bloom, 
There's  one  who  sees  red  clover  fields 
Against  the  landward  gloom  1 


137 


WEATHER 

BY   MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 

GIVE  me.  a  land  where  the  fog  comes  manifold  and 
grey 
From  over  the  black  wash  of  the  waves  and  the  sheer 

white  spray; 
For  in  a  land  where  the  fog  lies  my  mother  bore  her 

child- 
Out  of  the  blown  wet  veil  of  the  fog  first  I  wept  and 
smiled. 

Give  me  a  land  where  the  fog  comes,  for  when  I  burn 

with  pain, 
As  to  a  mother  I  would  go  home  into  the  fog  again; 
I  would  leave  the  garish  fire  of  the  sun  and  go  where 

skies  are  blind, 
For  cool  to  cover  me  is  the  fog,  cool  and  very  kind, 
Large  as  her  love  to  hold  and  enfold  me,  quiet  as  death 

— or  sleep — 
It  may  be  that  where  the  fog  lies  I  can  smile  again,  or 

weep. 


138 


SUMMER  SEA 

BY  ARCHIE  AUSTIN  COATES 

THE  sea  is  like  a  little  child  at  play, 
Its  bright  hair  sparkling  in  the  sunshine; 
Us  tousled  curls  dancing  in  the  breeze 
Spread  out  in  undulent  reaches 
Across  the  shoulders  of  the  bar. 
The  sea  is  like  a  solitary  child 
Murmuring  and  singing  to  itself  in  play, 
Skipping  across  into  shallow  inlets, 
Catching  and  tossing  a  vagrant  sea-flower, 
Or  pouring  a  thousand  little  shells 
Idly  from  hand  to  hand. 


139 


LONELINESS 

BY  E.   J.   COATS  WORTH 

THE  sea  lies  throbbing  on  the  shore. 
The  sea-gulls  cry  against  the  west. 
Those  who  think  least  are  happiest. 

The  sea-weeds  blindly  twist  and  turn, 
The  long  waves  shudder  on  the  reef. 
Power  for  joy  is  power  for  grief. 

A  mist  comes  groping  from  afar, 
It  cannot  press  the  sea  to  rest. 
Those  who  think  least  are  happiest 


140 


INLAND 

BY  EDNA  VALENTINE  TRAPNELL 

WILLIE'S  wife  is  very  kind,  Willie's  equal  you 
can't  find 
And  they've  brought  me  here  to  anchor  for  as  long  as 

I  shall  stay; 
The  children  fairly  dote  on  my  little  whittled  boats 
And  it's  "Granpop,  Granpop"  all  the  live-long  day. 

But  it's  that  still  o'  nights  that  I  cant  feel  to  rights, 
Nothing  but  the  crickets  or  the  foot  steps  passing  by. 
I  strain  my  old  deaf  ears  'till  it  almost  seems  they 

hears 
The  murmur  of  the  waters  or  the  sea-gulls'  squeaky 

cry. 

The  white  road  stretches  down,  farm  by  farm  an'  town 

by  town, 
If  I  could  follow  far  enough  I  know  I'd  reach  the  sea — 
Oh,  to  hear  the  sea  birds  cry  an'  to  watch  the  ships 

sail  by, 
Jus'  to  sniff  the  old  salt  smell  how  happy  I  would  be! 

Jus'  to  hear  the  Captains  talk,  from  Point  Jude  to 

Kitty  hawk 
Jus'  to  hear  the  crashin'  roar  of  the  breakers  runnin 

free — 

141 


Inland 


My  eyes  are  sick  to  sight  the  old  Fire  Island  Light 
Where  she  lifts  across  the  waters  for  to  warn  the  ships 
at  sea. 

Soon  they'll  lay  me  down  to  rest  with  my  hands 

crossed  on  my  breast 
Scarred  by  ropes  and  marked  with  anchors  as  a  sailor 

man's  should  be. 
But  my  soul,  she'll  never  bide — at  the  turnin'  of  the 

tide 
She'll  be  pulling  at  her  anchor  and  a  runnin'  out  to  sea ! 


142 


THE   TANKERS 

BY  GORDON   MALHERBE   HILLMAN 

TO  Bombay  and  Capetown,  and  ports  of  a  hundred 
lands, 
To  Mombassa,  Panama,  and  Aden  on  the  sands, 
Red  with  rust  and  green  with  mold,  caked  with  sodden 

brine, 
The  reeling,  rolling  tankers  sail  Southward  from  the 
Tyne. 

Southward  past  the  Cornish  cliffs,  cleft  red  against  the 

clouds, 
They  snort  and  stagger  onward  with  sailors  in  their 

shrouds 
To  the  spell  of  rolling  seas  and  the  blue  of  a  windy 

sky 
While  the  smoke  lies  brown  to  leeward  as  the  liners 

scurry  by. 

Thrashing  through  a  tearing  gale  with  a  dark  green  sea 

ahead, 
While  the  funnel  clews  sing  madly  against  a  sky  of 

red, 
Foam  choked  and  wave  choked,  scarred  by  battered 

gear, 
The  long  brown  decks  are  whirling  seas  where  silver 

combers  rear. 

143 


The  Tankers 


Swinging  down  a  brilliant  gulf  with  shores  of  brown 

and  gray 
The  snub-nosed,  well-decked  tankers  slowly   steam 

their  way 
Up  the  straits  to  the  Pirate  Coast  and  dim  harbors  of 

the  South 
Where  they  lie  like  long  red  patches  by  a  jungle  river's 

mouth. 


144 


"SHIPPING  NEWS" 

BY  DAVID   MORTON 

HERE  is  the  record  of  their  splendid  days: 
The  curving  prow,  the  tall  and  stately  mast, 
And  all  the  width  and  wonder  of  their  ways 

Reduced  to  little  printed  words,  at  last. 
The  Helen  Dover  docks,  the  Mary  Ann 

Departs  for  Ceylon  and  the  Eastern  trade: 
Arrived:    The  Jacque,  with  cargoes  from  Japan, 
And  Richard  Kidd,  a  tramp,  and  Silver  Maid. 

The  narrow  print  is  wide  enough  for  these: 
But  here:    "Reported  Missing"  ...  the  type  fails, 

The  column  breaks  for  white,  disastrous  seas, 
The  jagged  spars  thrust  through,  and  flapping  sails 

Flagging  farewells  to  sky  and  wind  and  shore, 
Arrive  at  silent  ports,  and  leave  no  more. 


145 


CROSSING   ON  THE   SEATTLE   FERRY 

BY  CLARE  D.  STEWART 

OH  the  exquisite  poems  in  sound, 
The  swash  of  the  bow  wave, 

The  boil  of  the  wake, 

The  rhythmic  sound  pulse  of  the  hidden  screw, 

The  white  swash  of  a  clumsy-topped  wave  that  trips 
and  falls, 

(Can  you  hear  white  swashes  and  white  sounds? 

I  can  hear  white  sounds — 

They  are  always  soft — 

They  are  quiet  sounds, 

Just  soothing  the  silence  by  their  inconspicuous 
swishes,  rustles,  murmurs, 

Like  the  breaking  of  bubbles  in  cloudy  foam, 

And  the  fall  of  snow  flakes  upon  snow) 

And  then  the  lap  of  the  little  green  slopes  against  the 
bell  buoy's  adamant  red, 

Or  the  keening  of  a  taut  stay,  vibrant,  weird, 

The  slap-slap-slap  of  a  halyard  against  a  staff,  count- 
ing the  pulses  of  the  iron  heart  stowed  away  in 
the  vessel's  vitals, 

And  the  whirr  of  a  gull's  wings — 

Oh  I  say  there  are  poems  in  sound, 

Poems  as  many  as  bubbles  here  while  crossing  the  bay. 

146 


Crossing  On  the  Seattle  Ferry 

And  the  exquisite  poems  in  sight ! 

I  see  a  sleek-hulled  ship, 

Pushed  thru  the  cold  green  water 

By  the  unseen,  polished  blades,  rapidly  whirling, 

I  see  a  graceful  hull  at  a  mooring, 

With  a  black  top-side  and  a  white  boot-top, 

And  a  red  boot-top, 

And  a  green  line  at  the  water! 

Without  your  graceful  ends  you  are  beautiful,  0  Hull ! 

Without  your  mellow  colors  you  are  beautiful,  0  Hull ! 

Even  afar  like  a  smudge  upon  the  wave  you  are  beauti- 
ful, 0  Hull! 

Even  afar  as  a  speck  beneath  the  sun  you  are  beauti- 
ful, 0  Hull! 

I  look  at  our  ship's  invasion  of  untrammeled  waters 
ahead, 

The  drapery  of  eager  commotion  that  fans  out  abeam 
and  astern, 

The  ermine  lace  of  a  toppling  crest, 

The  lathery  curd  of  the  wake, 

Cumulous  white, 

The  side-swell's  far-reaching  orderly  ridges, 

Lifting  the  sea  like  curving  plow-shares  of  pearl, 

The  smoke  tumbling  out  of  the  funnels, 

Drooping  abeam  over  the  sea, 

Doubling  and  redoubling  and  gyrating  like  dancers 
in  a  dream, 

Swirling  whirl-pools  of  murk  that  detach  themselves 
and  spin  into  nothingness, 

Queer  little  torques, 

147 


Crossing  On  the  Seattle  Ferry 

Spinning  and  spinning,  and  low,  are  gone, 

Like  gray  old  women  in  a  child's  faery  tale ; 

And  I  see  the  fine-spun  radial  lines  about  my  aureoled 

head  upon  the  mote-filled  water, 
I  see  it  as  Walt  Whitman  saw  it — 
It  is  the  halo  shine  of  the  God  in  man, 
Of  the  God  in  me — 
And  it  will  make  a  God  of  you,  0  Reader,  to  stand  at 

the  rail  in  the  sun-stream  and  gaze  at  the  water 
Marking  the  bubble  swarms  beneath  the  surface, 
Swimming  upward  and  outward, 
Simmering  like  bees; 

Feeling  the  stroke  of  the  Chinook  on  your  hand, 
Laughing,   laughing,   laughing,   laughing,  the  inward 

laugh  of  joy  in  the  sea-shine  and  sun-shine, 
Purged  by  this  riotous  bath  of  sense — 
O  splash  of  crimson  stack! 
0  note  of  shrilling  tug ! 
O  kiss  of  wind ! 

0  ye  sheer  miracles  of  sense  I 
Quivering  flood  of  sense — 

1  bathe  and  bathe  and  bask, 
Exult,  and  nothing  ask 

But  that  the  sunny  day  endure. 


148 


BEAUTY  LIKE  YOURS 

BY  DAVID   MORTON 

BEAUTY  like  yours  is  stranger  than  white  ships 
That  leave  their  ports  to  sail  into  the  night: 
Faint  winds  of  mystery  are  at  your  lips, 

Young  dawns  have  brought  you  chrisms  of  their 
light 
And  left  their  whiteness  on  you,  and  old  dusks 

Of  dreamy-hearted  countries  haunt  your  hair 
With  shadows  and  elusive,  trailing  musks — 

Till  you  have  come  most  marvellously  fair. 
What  spirit  shores,  on  what  forgotten  sea, 

Knew  the  thin  shallop  of  your  shining  soul, 
The  fragile  grace,  the  gleaming  radiancy? 

0,  slender  barque,  what  waters  yet  may  roll 
Back  from  the  prow  in  dancing  flowers  of  foam, 

Or  on  deep  bosoms  bear  you  gently  home? 


149 


SAND 

BY  HORTENSE  FLEXNEE 

THE  sand  which  will  not  hold  the  print  of  my  shoe, 
Remembers,  none  the  less, 
Chaos, 

The  birth  of  stars, 

And  the  sunken  lines  of  sea-devoured  continents. 
It  is  the  gray  hair  of  earth, 
Bleached  and  wave-beaten, 
That  has  known  the  passionate  rage  of  waters, 
White  heat  of  sun, 
And  the  slow  passing  of  a  thousand  thousand  years. 


150 


MASKS 

BY  MARIANNE  MOORE 

UT    00N"  .  .  .   "goose"   ...   and  "vulture"   .  .  . 

-L'  Thus,  from  the  kings  of  water  and  of  air, 
Men  pluck  three  catchwords  for  their  empty  lips. 
Mock  them  in  turn,  wise,  dumb  triumvirate! 
You,  gander,  with  stout  heart  tooled  like  your  wings 

of  steel, 
What  coward  knows  your  soul? 
"Egyptian  vultures,  clean  as  cherubim, 
All  ivory  and  jet,"  sons  of  the  burning  sun, 
What  creatures  call  you  "foul"? 
And  you,  nature's  own  child, 
You  most  precocious  water  bird, 
That  shouts  exultantly  among  lone  lakes, 
You,  foremost  in  the  madman's  alphabet — 
Laugh  in  superb  contempt  at  folly's  catalogue! 


151 


THE   ELM 

BY  ODELL   SHEPARD 

THE  mountain  pine  is  a  man  at  arms 
With  flashing  shield  and  blade, 
The  willow  is  a  dowager, 

The  birch  is  a  guileless  maid, 
But  the  elm  tree  is  a  lady 
In  gold  and  green  brocade. 

Broad-bosomed  to  the  meadow  breeze 

The  matron  maple  grows, 
The  poplar  plays  the  courtesan 

To  every  wind  that  blows, 
But  who  the  tall  elm's  lovers  are 

Only  the  midnight  knows. 

And  few  would  ever  ask  it 

Of  such  a  stately  tree, 
So  lofty  in  the  moonlight, 

So  virginal  stands  she, 
Snaring  the  little  silver  fish 

That  swim  her  silent  sea. 


152 


The  Elm 


But  hush!    A  hum  of  instruments 

Deep  in  the  night  begins, 
Along  those  dusky  galleries 

Low  music*  throbs  and  thins, — 
A  whispered  sound  of  harps  and  flutes 

And  ghostly  violins. 


For  what  mysterious  visitor 
Do  all  her  windy  bells 

Ring  welcome  in  t{ie  moonlight 
And  amorous  farewells?  .  ,  . 

The  elm  tree  is  a  lady. 
The  midnight  never  tells. 


153 


THESE  ARE  THY  SHEEP,  THEOCRITUS 

BY   HELEN   COALE   CREW 

WAR-CLANGOR  and  the  city's  din 
Fall  heavily  upon  our  ears ; 
Our  hearts  are  quick  to  leap  at  fears ; 
And  multitudinous  labors  mock 
The  night  with  their  persistent  grip ; 
When  lo,  with  nibbling  jerk  and  nip, 
To  our  glad  vision  enters  in 
The  little  wayward,  wanton  flock, 
The  little  snowy,  woolly  sheep, 
Whose  counting  woos  reluctant  sleep. 

These  are  thy  sheep,  Theocritus; 
The  tiny  marching  hooves  that  beat 
A  sharp  staccato  in  the  dells 
And  vales  Sicilian ;  theirs  the  bells 
That,  silver-tinkling  clear  and  sweet, 
To  drowsy  dreams  are  leading  us. 
Down  ^Etna's  slopes  to  emerald  grass 
They  come,  and  softly  browsing,  pass 
To  the  cool  brooks  for  watering ; 
For  grateful  shade,  to  olive  trees 
Deep-murmuring  with  myriad  bees, 
Hark!    Hear  you  not  Menalcas  sing 
To  the  shrill  pipes  of  Cory  don? 


154 


These  Are  Thy  Sheep,  Theocritus 

Pan!    Pan!    Pan! 

In  the  fervid  noon 

Behold,  I  bring  thee 

In  my  beechen  bowl, 

Carved  'round  with  vine-leaves, 

Chestnuts,  and  cheese, 

And  amber  honey, 

And  the  velvet  purple 

Of  a  grape-cluster! 

Deign  thou,  0  God  Pan, 
To  accept  my  offerings, 
And  give  me  in  return 
Amaryllis,  the  wilful  one, 
To  kiss  and  to  embrace 
In  the  twilight  thickets, 
When  the  Lord  Apollo 
Has  driven  his  steeds 
Below  the  cool  rim 
Of  the  blue  ocean ! 

Now  one  by  one,  and  one  by  one, 
And — 0  sweet  sleep ! — yet  one  by  one. 
Under  the  slowly  darkening  sky  ^ 

Broidered  by  Pleiads  on  the  line 
Where  weary  day  and  night  divine 
Mingle,  and  earth  is  musical 
With  the  black  cricket's  madrigal 
Up-issuing  from  the  tangled  grass — 
The  wanton,  woolly  sheep  still  pass, 


155 


These  Are  Thy  Sheep,  Theocritus 

Nosing  and  nibbling,  on  and  on, 

And  bleat  ....  and  browse  .  .  .  .  and  so  pass  by 

And  dispossessed  of  stress  and  din — 

The  roar  of  Mars,  the  shriek  of  sin — 

With  quiet  heart,  with  soothed  ear, 

Only  a  far,  dim  sound  we  hear, 

The  echo  of  Menalcas'  song 

And  the  faint  pipes  of  Corydon. 

.  .  .  0  kindly  Pan! 

Fold  me  in  nightly 

With  the  little  flock 

Of  divine  Theocritus, 

Who  sang  of  them 

As  they  nibbled  at  the  thickets 

Below  frowning  ^Etna, 

Where  eager  shepherd 

And  wilful  shepherdess 

Clasped  and  kissed  I 


156 


I 


A  HOME 

BY  HARDWICKE   MARMADTJKE  NEVIN 

N  some  walled  ancient  town  this  home  must  be, 
And  near,  as  always,  must  be  heard. . .  .the  sea. , 


Where  nights  our  foreheads  cool.    Where  drowsily 

The  vested  robins  choir  upon  the  lawn. 

Where  we  can  feel,  half-dreaming,  one  small  fawn 

Beneath  the  dewy  pines  move  wearily, 

Pause,  and  in  silence  from  the  rosary, 

Ponder,  with  elfin  mien,  on  us  'til  dawn. 

Where  sunlight  rolls  in  haloes  through  the  flowers. 
Where  ruined  abbeys  rise,  their  wet  lush  vines 
Cathedraling  the  forests.    Where  the  signs 
Of  coming  storms  in  skies  bring  only  showers. 

In  some  walled  ancient  town  this  home  must  be, 
And  near,  as  always,  must  be  heard  ...  the  sea  . 


157 


IN  THE   SKY  GARDEN 

BY  STEPHEN   MOYLAN  BIRD 

IN  God's  own  garden  I  have  sung  alone, 
Moon-borne  up  to  the  angels'  castle  towers, 
And  fingering  a  wind-strung,  wild  guitar, 
Have  sung  my  soul  song  to  the  knee-deep  flowers. 

And  once  an  angel  tossed  a  rosy  kiss, 
Fluttering  to  me,  a  warm  butterfly — 

And  now,  though  I  may  walk  in  earthly  ways, 
My  heart  still  haunts  the  garden  in  the  sky. 


158 


THE   QUEEN'S   SHRIFT 

BY  D.   E.   P.   HARDING 

THE  queen  laid  by  her  robes  of  state 
And  doffed  her  jeweled  crown. 
With  hushed  feet  and  look  elate 
She  from  the  dais  stepped  down. 

"I  go  into  retreat,  my  friends, 

My  loyal  friends,  alone, 
For  faults  I  have  to  make  amends 

And  any  sin  atone." 

They  bent  their  knees,  and  saw  her  pass, 
Though  each  one  said  within: 

"The  Queen's  soul  is  a  looking-glass 
For  Heaven.    It  holds  no  sin." 

They  saw  her  pass  beyond  the  gates 
With  bowed  and  uncrowned  head. 

They  said,  "She  goes  to  Hermit  Kate's 
To  pray  there  for  the  dead." 

But  when  she  reached  the  darksome  wood 

Beyond  her  subjects'  eyes, 
The  quiet  queen  in  rapture  stood, 

Then  danced  with  wild  emprise. 

159 


The  Queen's  Shrift 


She  gathered  leaves  and  made  a  wreath 

To  place  upon  her  brow. 
Unbending  trees  she  stood  beneath ; 

No  shrub  a  knee  did  bow. 

She  knelt  to  kiss  a  cool  flower's  face; 

She  cupped  her  hands  and  took — 
And  meanwhile  said  a  fervent  grace — 

A  long  drink  from  a  brook. 

She  sat  upon  its  bank  and  shed 
Wrought  shoe  and  silken  stocking. 

A  bird  above  her  leaf-crowned  head 
Would  not  leave  off  his  mocking. 

A  girdle  rare,  with  wondrous  care 
All  threaded  thick  with  pearls, 

She  cast  aside;  unpinned  her  hair 
And  freed  its  netted  curls. 

She  danced  and  sang.    A  kiss  she  threw 
To  calm  white  clouds  which  floated 

As  if  they  all  her  madness  knew 
And  on  her  gladness  doted. 

In  her  bare  hut,  stood  Hermit  Kate, 

And  told  her  beads  again 
For  youthful  majesty  who  sate, 

Denying  youth,  to  reign. 

160 


The  Queen's  Shrift 


The  Queen  returned,  a  tranquil  mind, 
With  chastened  mien,  and  solemn  air. 

Her  maidens  marveled  much  to  find 
At  night,  a  green  leaf  in  her  hair. 


161 


FROM  "SONGS   FOR  A  MASK" 

BY   MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

SWANHILD  SINGS  TO  THE  KNIGHT 

WHAT  shall  I  do  with  my  heart 
That  will  not  go  with  thee, 
Lover  of  mine,  knight  of  mine,  guide  to  the  heights 
afar? 
There  is  a  dream  to  follow 
That  will  not  let  me  be — 
I  must  go  down  to  the  marshland's  water,  hiding  from 
wind  and  star! 

"What  shall  I  do  with  thy  heart 

Seeking  me  without  rest — 
I  who  must  strip  all  hands  from  me,  guarding  my  steps 
in  fear? 
Turn  from  the  faery  woodland, 
Pass  to  thy  holy  quest — 
I  must  go  seek  for  the  track  of  the  swan  and  the  sound 
of  the  step  of  the  deerl 


162 


THE   WATERFALL 

BY  MARION   COUTHOUY   SMITH 

HERE,  where  the  eternal  waters  fling  themselves, 
Motion  itself  stands  still.    The  flashing  storm 
Of  change  has  wrought  itself  in  changeless  form, 
Sculptured  in  white  between  the  rocky  shelves. 

Over  this  ledge  the  centuries  are  hurled, 
Fixed  in  one  mighty  instant;  and  all  time 
Sounds  in  a  single  multitudinous  chime, 

Here  in  a  green  cleft  of  the  lonely  world. 


163 


SIXTEEN 

BY  ELIZABETH   HANLY 

f  f^OOD-NIGHT,"  my  father  says  and  winds  the 

^J     clock. 
My  mother  smooths  her  work  and  lays  it  down, 
And  puts  her  thread  and  thimble  in  their  place. 
She  folds  my  father's  paper,  "Coming,  Ned," 
She  calls  to  him  and  then  she  lifts  my  face 
And  kisses  me.    "Good-night,  my  dear,"  she  says, 
I  close  my  book  and  go  upstairs  to  bed. 

A  little  sweet  wind  makes  my  curtains  sway, 
A  bar  of  moonlight  lies  along  the  spread. 

Across  the  hall,  I  hear  low  voices  say, 

"I  'phoned  about  the  milk.    The  gas-bill  came  to-day." 

The  baby  stirs  and  whimpers  fretfully 

And  Mother  comforts  him,  "Sh,  sh,  my  dear," 

She  croons ;  then  whispers  from  my  doorway,  "Jean, 

You're  warm  enough?    How  bright  the  moon  is  here! 

Good-night."    A  door  shuts.    Then  the  clock  strikes 

ten. 
And  everyone  is  fast  asleep  but  me. 

A  motor-car  purrs  by  and  stops.    I  hear 
Low  laughter  from  the  little  house  next  door. 


164 


Sixteen 


Then  comes  a  pause  and  though  I  cannot  see, 
I  know  someone  has  just  been  kissed.    And  soon 
"Good-night,"  again.    The  motor  glides  away. 
Somebody  whistles  clearly  down  the  street. 
I  lie  here  in  my  room  that's  bright  as  day, 
My  body  white  and  still  beneath  the  sheet, 
My  heart  a  mad  thing  underneath  the  moon. 


165 


FREESIA 

BY  THERESA  HELBTJRN 

THE  freesia  that  you  loved  so  well 
Is  here  in  hosts, 
And  from  each  slender  ivory  bell 
Rise  fragrant  ghosts 

Of  grey  dawns  by  the  sea,  that  passed 
In  silent  converse,  starred  with  pain, 

Moments  too  exquisite  to  last, 
Or  come  again. 


166 


IN 

BY  BEATRICE  RAVENEL 

OUTSIDE  is  lonely;  shut  the  door," 
He  says,  and  bending  quickly  brings 
The  fire  to  a  boyish  roar. 

Outside  is  full  of  friendly  things: 

Sighs  intimate  and  leaf-caress, 

The  answering  bosom  of  the  gloom. 

With  all  the  heart  of  loneliness 

Our  hearts  infect  this  prisoned  room. 


167 


UNDER   AUTUMN   TREES 

BY   CHRISTINE   TURNER   CURTIS 

THE  wayside  maples  have  put  up 
Their  ruffled  autumn  parasols — 
Chrome-yellow,  like  a  buttercup, 
And  through  the  arching  roof  there  falls 
The  softest,  clear,  translucent  light 
From  daybreak  to  the  brink  of  night. 

And  under  every  drooping  tree 
There  is  a  little  paven  plat 
Where  the  leaves,  dripping  dreamily, 
Have  made  a  crumpled  golden  mat; 
A  place  of  honey  light  and  hush, 
Where  Life  pauses  in  its  rush — 

And  the  long  restlessness  is  done — 
The  race  with  the  relentless  years — 
And  past  and  future  melt  in  one, 
And  the  old  sadness  disappears — 
And  that  estrangement  we  call  death 
Measures  no  longer  than  a  breath. 

The  spirit  is  no  more  concerned 
With  Time,  and  all  its  moil  and  maze — 
For  she  has  found  the  door,  and  turned 
Into  the  glad  eternal  ways ; 
And  every  treasure  of  her  heart 
Comes  speeding  from  its  realm  apart. 

168 


AN  APPLE  EATER  TO  A  COQUETTE 

BY  WILLIAM   LAIRD 

AH,  let  me  be ;  go  bend  thine  aim 
On  swifter  bucks,  on  sprightlier  game: 
So  may  the  love  my  boyhood  set 
On  apples,  rule  my  body  yet. 
Later,  if  thou  shalt  hear  avow : 
"Old  Brown  eats  no  more  Apples,  now  I" 
Remember  me ;  omit  the  tear ; 
Lay  Apple-blossoms  on  my  bier. 
Huntress  and  Queen,  awhile  forego 
The  breathless  chase ;  reluctant,  throw 
Thy  silver  arrows  clanging  down, 
And  look  thy  envious  last  on  Brown. 

But  when  the  kindly  Autumn  brings 
To  every  place  her  pleasant  things, 
Then  eat  two  Apples,  blood  and  gold, 
And  set  the  close-gnawed  cores  in  mould 
Above  my  quiet  grave,  to  grow 
Two  goodly  trees,  whose  buds  shall  blow, 
Whose  fruit  shall  thud,  through  many  a  day, 
On  the  turf,  above  my  easy  clay. 

Then,  having  done  the  best  by  me, 
Back,  Huntress,  to  thine  archery: 
Again  let  field  and  woodland  ring 
With  twanging  of  thine  eager  string. 

169 


THE  COQUETTE  TO  THE  APPLE-EATER 

BY   MARY  ELEANOR  ROBERTS 

APPLE-EATER,  you  proclaim 
Such  your  character  and  name. 
Why  then  show  such  scorn  for  these 
Apples  of  Hesperides? 
Two  brown  apple-seeds  my  eyes 
Brought  by  Eve  from  Paradise. 
Red  and  gold  you  own  are  fair; 
Here  are  lips  and  burnished  hair. 
Yet  you  counsel  me  forsooth, 
I  should  set  a  pensive  tooth 
In  two  apples  (only  two?), 
And  should  eat,  remembering  you. 
By  the  primal  apple-tree 
You  shall  eat,  remembering  me ! 

I  have  twisted  apples  down 
E'en  from  Adam  unto  Brown. 
Break  the  fruit,  you'll  see  my  power; 
Hidden  star  that  shows  the  flower. 
You  are  not  so  old  and  staid ! 
Can  it  be  that  you're  afraid 
Of  the  sign  we  conquer  by 
Venus  Victrix,  Eve,  and  I? 


170 


FOUR  WALLS 

BY   MARY   MORSELL 

THE  four  walls  I  had  always  known, 
Grew  close  like  prison  bars; 
I  levelled  them  that  I  might  live 
Unbound  save  by  the  stars. 

I  levelled  them  with  strong,  glad  strokes; 
I  worked  untiringly, 
As  one  who  hews  through  virgin  woods, 
A  vista  toward  the  sea. 

And  when  at  last  the  walls  lay  low, 
And  earth  and  sea  and  sky 
Were  all  that  compassed  me  about, 
Wild  winds  came  rushing  by. 

In  fear  I  hunted  for  the  stones, 
To  build  my  wall  again ; 
But  they  were  gone,  and  mockingly, 
Down  poured  the  cold  gray  rain. 


171 


BROOMGRASS 

BY  BEATRICE  W.   RAVENEL 

THE  broomgrass  glows  with  the  sunset's  fire 
Long  and  long  when  the  sky  forgets, 
Into  the  dusk  like  a  hid  desire, — 
Purple  of  flame  and  of  violets. 

Rust  of  roses  and  roses'  ashes. 

Cold  in  the  night,  I  can  fancy  still 
Opals  of  glamour,  remembering  flashes ! 

When  the  swamp  folk  scratch  on  the  window-sill 

And  ghost  winds  whisper,  one  to  another, 

Rain-sounding  legends  of  waiting  and  dread; — 

Brother  huddled  to  little  brother, 
Wild  things  sleep  warm  in  the  broomgrass  bed. 

Ashes  of  roses  and  evening-glories, 

Make  me  a  lair  at  your  smouldering  core, 

You  that  have  hidden  the  sunsets'  stories, 
Bear  with  a  broken  secret  more  1 


172 


CERTAINTY 

BY  BEATRICE  W.   RAVENEL 

I  BREATHE  your  pity  like  enfolding  air. 
I  know,  because  the  blood-streaked  dew 
Has  wrung  my  forehead,  too, 
In  pity  of  your  despair. 

And  that  you  died  for  me  I  knew 

Because  along  that  sorry  way 

I  should  have  gone  that  day 
And  died  for  you. 


173 


THE   SOUL'S   GOODBYE 

BY  JOHN   M.   WARING 

MY  soul  went  out  before  the  dawn,  when  stars  were 
in  the  sky, 
The  river  rushed  along  its  course,  the  night  wind  hur- 
ried by, 
And  bore  upon  its  April  breath  the  stag-hound's  moan- 
ing cry. 

I  felt  so  free,  so  free — as  from  a  burden  loosed  away, — 
Alone,  without,  I  heard  what  wind  and  river  had  to 

say, 
One  should  be  dead  to  understand  such  orators  as  they ! 

I  came  along  the  garden  paths,  so  dark  and  damp  with 

dew, 
I  thought  of  all  within  the  house,  but  most  of  all  of 

you, 

Still  wrapped  in  earthly  veils,  that  I  had  thinned,  and 
broken  through. 

I  stopped  beneath  your  window,  in  the  turret  of  the 

Hall,— 
And  whispered  low  the  little  name  I  loved  the  best  of 

all, 
The  little  name,  the  childish  name,  they  gave  when  you 

were  small! 

174 


The  Soul's  Goodbye 


And  did  you  know  that,  passing  out,  it  was  to  you  I 

came? 
And  did  you  hear,  and  did  you  hear  that  whispered 

little  name? 
For  sudden,  through  the  lattice  blind,  I  saw  a  candle 

flame  .  .  . 

The  wind  rushed  past  your  lattice,  and  the  ivy  tapped 

again — 
The  sweetness  of  our  friendship  welled  within  my  soul, 

and  then 
I  turned  towards  the  starry  road  that  is  not  known  of 

men! 


175 


BELLS   OF   ERIN 

BY  NORREYS   JEPHSON   O'CONOR 

EVENING  bells  of  Erin, 
From  across  the  sea 
Do  I  hear  you  ringing, 
Bringing  peace  to  me? 

Bells  of  busy  Dublin, 

Through  the  jumbled  sounds 
Of  the  darkling  city 

Your  deep  jangling  pounds. 

Over  Meath's  green  grassland 
Comes  your  mingled  tone 

To  the  weary  farmer 
Working  late,  alone. 

Famous  bells  of  Shandon, 

Steady,  soft,  and  clear 
Are  the  strokes  you're  striking, 

Bells  without  a  peer! 

But  the  bells  of  Mallow 

Ring  within  my  heart 
Heedless  of  unheeding  sea 

And  two  lands  apart. 

176 


Bells  of  Erin 


Again  I  see  the  Castle 
And  the  sprawling  town, 

Muddy,  racing  river, 
Meadow  grass,  unmown. 

Evening  bells  of  Erin, 

From  across  the  sea 
One  day  shall  you  be  ringing 

Lasting  peace  for  me? 


177 


COMFORT 

BY   MARGARET  FRENCH   PATTON 

IF  grief  should  come  to  me 
Like  a  big  wind  bringing  the  rain. 
Or  if  sorrow  should  cramp  my  heart 
With  its  pain, 

I  know  where  my  heart  would  turn, 
As  a  battered  flower  to  the  sun, — 
To  your  face — with  its  wrinkled  smile — 
And  its  fun. 


178 


HOME 

BY  BERENICE   K.   VAN   SLYKE 

THE  smell  of  hot  bread 
With  a  gold-brown  crust, 
Cooling; 

The  gentle  light  of  afternoon 
Dozing  upon  the  shining  windowpanes; 
The  old  rug  whose  faded  threads 
Melt  into  the  brown  scrubbed  floor; 
The  tick  of  a  clock 
Above  the  sink; 

An  occasional  faint  plop  of  water 
Dropping  from  the  faucet. 

A  leaf  floats  to  the  dry  grass; 

The  wind  breathes; 

The  light  softens, 

Deepens, 

Imperceptibly ; 

Upstairs  the  indeterminate  sounds 

Of  human  movement 

Flutter  the  air: 

Mother  rising,  vaguely  as  in  a  dream, 

From  her  nap. 

The  quiet  ripples  away 

From  the  staircase, 

179 


Home 

Eddies  into  the  corners  of  the  kitchen 

As  she  comes  down; 

Comes  down 

And  parts  the  silence 

As  a  stone  parts  the  waters. 


180 


IN  THE   HALLWAY 

BY  LOUIS   GINSBERG 

THE  hall  is  windy  with  the  wings  of  dreams; 
And  as  I  hold  you  in  this  quiet  place, 
The  darkness  grows  a  benediction  hushed 
About  the  rapture  of  your  lifted  face! 

From  what  sweet  lyric  did  you  blossom  out? 

From  what  old  master's  nocturne  did  you  come? 
How  long  did  Leonardo  trace  your  heart? 

How  many  striving  songs  have  faltered  dumb? 

A  hush  is  brooding  dimly  at  your  lips. 

You  cling  to  me  and  let  me  hold  you  long. 
You  do  not  even  murmur  any  word ; 

Your  eyes  are  silence  and  your  breath  is  songl  .  .  . 

The  hall  is  windy  with  the  wings  of  dreams ; 

They  brush  our  hearts  with  fire  till  we  start  .  .  . 
Your  eyes  are  silence  and  your  breath  is  song — 

And    thronging    flames    are    crying    through    my 
heart  I  .  .  . 


181 


THE   SINGER   EXULTS 

BY  SALOMON   DE  LA  SELVA 

I  BRING  to  you  no  common  gift, 
Though  dream-possessed  and  wonder-eyed; 
I  have  but  watched  the  hours  sift 
Between  my  fingers  open  wide. 

I  never  clutched  the  instant  sands 

Of  Time,  have  neither  toiled  nor  spun, 

And  yet  I  come  with  richest  hands 
Now  toil  and  spinning-time  are  done. 


182 


THE   POET'S   PATH 

BY  DANIEL   HENDERSON 

WHEN  Chaucer  sang — did  he  pursue 
A  mystic  or  exotic  strain, 
Not  so !    From  folk  he  met  he  drew 
His  Canterbury  train! 

And  Shakespeare  of  the  deathless  page — 
What  won  him  immortality? 

Because  he  made  our  world  his  stage 
He  lives  for  you  and  me ! 

And  Burns,  his  brief  life  madly  spent, 
Why  does  he  sway  us  to  this  hour? 

He  voiced  a  ruined  maid's  lament! 
He  mourned  a  broken  flower ! 

Ye  who  aspire  to  follow  Song, 

Spurn  not  the  plain,  broad  path  of  art! 
Walk  with  great  poets  through  the  throng 

And  feed  the  common  heart! 


183 


BUBBLES 

BY  OSCAR  C.   WILLIAMS 

I  HAVE  blown  bubbles  in  the  night, 
So  weary  of  the  day  was  I ! 
Though  flowers'  dreams  were  petalled  tight 
And  gold  and  blue  had  left  the  sky. 

I  have  blown  bubbles  in  the  night 
Though  there  were  never  eyes  to  see 

My  little,  floating  worlds  alight 
With  black  and  silver  witchery. 

I  have  blown  bubbles  in  the  night 
Though  there  were  never  hearts  to  mark 

How  one  by  one  they  touched  the  stars 
And  vanished  in  the  sudden  dark! 


184 


MIST 

BY   MARGIE  POTTER 

THE  curving  road  gleams  through  the  fog, 
And  beckons  me ; 
Dim  lucent  mists  wrap  me  about 
In  secrecy. 

Oh,  peopled  loneliness!    Oh,  dreams! 

Oh,  world  shut  out! 
Drawn  swaying  shades,  hearts'  fire  within, — 

Life's  storm  without! 

The  air  is  thick  with  crowding  thoughts, 

Like  half-heard  wings ; 
An  uncaused  bliss  wakes  in  my  soul 

And  waking  sings. 

Familiar  lamps  shine  mist-transformed 

Through  ghostly  trees; 
And  I  walk  rapt  in  exquisite 

Lonely  unease. 

Hang  low  and  hearten  me,  dim  peace,— 

Hang  close  and  low; 
Wrought  to  thine  obscure  ecstasy 

I  forth  would  go. 


185 


___ Mist 

Oh,  presence  winged,  unnamed,  serene, 

Brood  thou  and  shine ; 
Thy  gray  plumes  shroud  no  earthly  light, 

Thou  bird  divined 


186 


PULVIS   ET  UMBRA 

BY  EDWARD  J.   O'BRIEN 

I  AM  but  a  dusty  name 
Blowing  down  a  ruined  stair, 
I  whose  passion  was  a  flame 
Kindling  all  the  windy  air. 

Veil  my  dreaming  with  a  sigh. 

Light  is  drowned  in  shadow's  foam, 
I,  whose  dream  may  never  die, 

Knew  not  when  I  wandered  home. 


187 


REVELATION 

BY  LOUISE  TOWNSEND   NICHOLL 

YOUTH  slipped  off  me  like  a  garment, 
Fell  away  and  left  me  free — 
(Billowing  cloak  of  many  colors, 
Youth  was  beautiful  to  see!) 

Then  slipped  weight  from  off  my  shoulders,- 
( Strange  how  heavy  dreams  may  be!) — 

And  a  trouble  from  my  spirit, 
Bruised  and  sore  with  honesty. 

Then  was  torn  the  rainbow  veiling 
From  my  eyes  that  I  might  see. 

Now  I  stand  aghast,  ecstatic, 
Reaching  for  Reality. 


188 


THE  TISSUE 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

OTHERS  make  their  poems  of  aiiv 
Roses,  dew,  and  song  of  birds, 
Weaving  all  with  dainty  care, 
In  the  magic  web  of  words. 

Such  resources  have  I  none, 

Varied  excellence  of  art. 
Stuff  for  verse  I've  only  one: 

Throbbing  tissue  of  my  heart. 


189 


WHO 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

THE  long  and  melancholy  wind 
Blows  over  the  salt  sea; 
It  sounds  like  one  whose  soul  has  sinned 
And  never  can  get  free. 

And  all  our  souls  alike  have  sinned 

And  who  shall  set  us  free? 
Oh,  sombre,  melancholy  wind 

And  desolate,  salt  sea. 


190 


MY  YOUTH 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

OH,  my  youth  was  hot  and  eager, 
And  my  heart  was  burning,  burning, 
And  the  present  joy  seemed  meagre, 
Dwarfed  by  that  perpetual  yearning. 

I  was  always  madly  asking 
Ampler  beauty,  keener  pleasure, 

Had  not  wit  enough  for  basking 
In  the  sunshine,  rich  with  leisure. 

Now  with  ripeness  of  October 
I  have  reasoned  and  reflected. 

And  I  feed  my  soul,  grown  sober, 
With  the  crumbs  that  I  rejected. 


191 


BROWN  LEAVES 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

THE  passage  of  dead  leaves  in  spring 
Is  like  the  aged  vanishing. 
Amid  the  bustle  and  delight 
Of  beauty  thronging  sound  and  sight, 
Their  lengthened  course  we  hardly  know 
Nor  mark  their  exit  when  they  go. 
Yet  through  the  burst  of  budding  green 
And  blossoms  rich  with  varied  sheen 
A  brown  leaf  sometimes  flutters  by 
And  breeds  a  sombre  revery. 


192 


THE   DRONE 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

I  MIGHT  have  been  a  worker,  but  I'm  nothing  but  a 
drone. 
I  tell  my  idle  stories  in  a  philosophic  tone. 
In  a  fuzzy,  spiny  mantle  of  remoteness  softly  furled 
I  lie  and  watch  with  half-shut  eyes  the  stupefying 
world. 

And  they  bustle  and  they  rustle  with  their  self-con- 
suming din. 

And  eager  feet  go  hurrying  out  and  tired  feet  come  in. 

Like  Bottom,  when  they  hear  a  sound  they  all  must 
rush  to  see. 

They're  always  running  after  life.    I  let  it  come  to  me. 


193 


EXPENSES 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

T  'M  sick  to  death  of  money,  of  the  lack  of  it,  that  is, 
■■■  And  of  practising  perpetually  small  economies ; 
Of  paring  off  a  penny  here,  another  penny  there, 
Of  the  planning  and  the  worrying,  the  everlasting  care. 

The  savages  went  naked  and  no  doubt  digested  fruit, 
And  when  they  longed  for  partridge  all  they  had  to  do 

was  shoot. 
But  it  may  be  Mrs.  Savage  was  extravagant  in  paint 
And  all  the  little  Savages  made  juvenile  complaint. 

"I  want  a  bow  like  We-We's.    I  want  a  fine  canoe. 
I  don't  have  half  such  dandy  things  as  other  fellers  do." 
And  Mrs.  Savage  quite  agreed  it  was  an  awful  shame. 
So  Mr.  Savage  sighed  about  expenses  just  the  same. 


194 


THE  DAINTY  VIRTUE 

BY   GAMALIEL   BRADFORD 

SHE  fled  me  through  the  meadow. 
She  fled  me  o'er  the  hill. 
With  such  a  fling  she  fled,  oh, 
She  may  be  flying  still. 

But  doubtless  she  grew  weary 
By  thicket  or  by  wood. — 

A  dainty  virtue,  dearie, 

That  fled  when  none  pursued. 


195 


ROUSSEAU 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

THAT  odd,  fantastic  ass,  Rousseau, 
Declared  himself  unique. 
How  men  persist  in  doing  so, 
Puzzles  me  more  than  Greek. 

The  sins  that  tarnish  whore  and  thief 

Beset  me  every  day. 
My  most  ethereal  belief 

Inhabits  common  clay. 


196 


GOD 

BY  GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 

DAY  and  night  I  wander  widely  through  the  wilder- 
ness of  thought, 
Catching  dainty  things  of  fancy  most  reluctant  to  be 

caught. 
Shining  tangles  leading  nowhere  I  persistently  unravel, 
Tread  strange  paths  of  meditation  very  intricate  to 
travel. 

Gleaming  bits  of  quaint  desire  tempt  my  steps  beyond 

the  decent. 
I  confound  old  solid  glory  with  publicity  too  recent. 
But  my  one  unchanged  obsession,  wheresoe'er  my  feet 

have  trod, 
Is  a  keen,  enormous,  haunting,  never-sated  thirst  for 

God. 


197 


BED-TIME 

BY  RALPH   M.   JONES 

f"  MIND,  love,  how  it  ever  was  this  way: 
*■       That  I  would  to  my  task;  and  soon  I'd  hear 
Your  little  fluttering  sigh,  and  you  would  say, 
"It's  bed-time,  dear." 

So  you  would  go  and  leave  me  at  my  work; 

And  I  would  turn  to  it  with  steady  will, 
And  wonder  why  the  room  had  grown  so  dark, 

The  night  so  chill. 

Betimes  I'd  hear  the  whisper  of  your  feet 
Upon  the  stair;  and  you  would  come  to  me, 

All  rosy  from  your  dreams,  and  take  your  seat 
Upon  my  knee. 

"Poor,  tired  boy!"  you'd  say.    But  I  would  miss 
The  lonely  message  of  your  eyes,  and  so 

Proffer  the  hasty  bribery  of  a  kiss, 
And  let  you  go. 

But  now,  dear  heart,  that  you  have  scaled  the  stair 
To  that  dim  chamber  far  above  the  sun, 

I  fumble  with  my  futile  task,  nor  care 
To  get  it  donfe. 

198 


Bed-Time 


For  all  is  empty  since  you  said  good-night 
(So  spent  you  were,  and  weary  with  the  day!) 

And  on  the  hearth  the  ashes  of  delight 
Lie  cold  and  gray. 

Ah,  sweet  my  love,  could  I  but  wish  you  down 
In  that  white  raiment  which  I  know  you  wear; 

And  hear  once  more  the  rustle  of  your  gown 
Upon  the  stair; 

Could  I  but  have  you,  drowsily-sweet,  to  say 
The  tender  little  words  that  once  I  knew — 

How  gaily  would  I  put  my  work  away 
And  go  with  you. 


199 


AFTER   SORROW 

BY  WINIFRED   WELLES 

MY  heart  can't  break,  but  closes  like  a  flower 
That  waits  in  windless  places  for  the  day — 
Until  the  arrowy  dawn  finds  some  swift  way 
To  pierce  its  paleness  with  a  gleaming  hour. 

And  when  at  last  I  look  without  offense 

Through  windows  and  in  mirrors  that  were  yours, 

The  stranger  shadow  in  them  reassures 

My  heart  that  it  has  learned  indifference. 

So  hour  and  hour  and  hour  and  dark  and  light 
Go  rustling  slowly  by  as  women  do, 
Trailing  complacence  in  a  silken  dress. 

Until,  crying  with  loneliness  some  night, 
I  wake  from  that  old  dream  of  losing  you 
To  find  my  hands  closed  tight  on  emptiness. 


200 


WINTER   FLOWERS 

BY  EFFIE  BANGS  WARVELLE 

DRIED  stems  of  asters 
And  goldenrod  once  gay, 
The  zero  wind  is  playing 
With  you  this  winter  day. 

White,  white  are  the  snowfields, 

The  hills  are  purple  blue, 
But  even  your  little  shadows 

Are  brighter  now  than  you. 

And  yet,  frail  ghosts  of  asters 

And  saddened  goldenrod, 
How  willingly  your  green  souls  crept 

Back  to  the  kindly  sod  I 


201 


SNOW 

BY  C.   S.   HUNTINGTON 

THERE  is  a  time  of  snow  in  all  adventure, 
A  space  of  whiteness,  and  of  quiet,  shutting  in, 
There  is  a  winter,  not  of  life — but  thinking, 
That  with  its  lack  of  blossoms  gives  us  grace, 
That  in  its  silent  tide  of  patience 
Will  cleanse  our  thoughts  as  all  the  fields  are  clean. 

There  is  a  waiting,  blanketed  with  musing 
Before  the  spring  can  turn  through  shining  rain. 
We  must  be  quiet  and  hide  away  our  blunders, 
Receive  the  smoothing  cover  of  repose, 
And  in  the  passionless  and  clear,  chill  ether, 
Fill  with  untainted  breath  our  burning  souls. 


202 


STRESS   OF   SNOW 

BY   CHARLES   R.   MURPHY 

C>ME  up  the  hill  and  listen  to  the  snow; 
The  trees  will  snare  it  in  their  branches  for  you, 
The  almost  enunciating  trees; 
And  the  uttering  wind  will  nudge  you, 
Once,  again,  and  thrice, 
Then  rest  on  the  flat  air, 
Calm  with  the  stillness  of  unfallen  snow. 
And  the  voioe  of  the  snow?    What  is  it? 
It  is  neither  the  wind, 
Nor  the  trees, 
Yet  they  are  part  of  it. 
Be  still  and  listen  now; 
Here  is  the  first  faint  drifting  of  the  snow. 
For  us  who  believe  in  it  it's  hard 
To  make  you  feel  a  thing  we  cannot  tell; 
For  the  voice  has  never  spoken  words, 
Yet  there  is  a  murmuring  in  our  hearts, 
And  when  we  come  to  sequestered  crannies  of  the 

world, 
Or  mount  to  hilltops  like  this  one  of  ours 
To  have  a  spell  of  listening, 
All  that  we  can  say  is  that  we  somehow 
Make  annotations  to  an  unseen  text. 
Give  me  your  hand;  we'll  stand  here  under  the  trees 

203 


Stress  of  Snow 


And  watch  the  grey  oust  every  sharper  light 

And  the  first  soft  impinging  of  delicate  flakes, 

Feel  the  upgathered  wind  set  free  again 

And  the  lunging  trees  rock  to  our  very  feet; 

Wince  at  our  blinded  vision,  and  have  our  blood 

Fevered  with  the  tumult  of  the  snow. 

Do  you  shiver? 

Is  this  different  from  your  land? 

I  know  some  who  suffer  anguish  at  this  point 

And  say  when  there's  no  juncture  to  the  sky 

And  earth  that  their  souls's  blind  and  panic-struck 

And  dumb,  and  that  these  clustering  flakes 

Grapple  at  their  heart — 

Would  bow  their  drooping  soul, 

Like  a  bent  stressed  twig,  earthward 

Under  this  white  annulment  of  the  snow. 

But  I  think  they  are  mistaken; 

The  voice  of  the  snow  itself  does  not  say  this — 

And  I  will  not  have  you  think  it. 

Hark,  the  wind  is  failing — feel  its  lessening  sting; 

The  flakes  are  loitering,  they  lapse, 

And  you  can  see  the  steel-blue  woods, 

And  far  off  against  the  blackening  sky, 

The  smoothed-off  sinews  of  the  hills. 

Something  here  there  is  that  calls  for  acceptance— 

Urges  the  upright  breasting  of  the  storm, 

Urges  the  upgathering 

Of  all  the  brunt  of  its  every  bitter  sting 

And  the  hurt  loneliness  of  its  aftermath— 


204 


Stress  of  Snow 


Urges  to  make  one  with  yourself 

The  lifeless  rigidity  of  earth, 

The  unrelenting  night 

And  menace  of  the  impalpable  cold — 

Urges  the  gesture  of  wide  open  arms 

That  is  but  an  intimation 

Of  your  own  soul's  amplitude, 

Wide  as  the  acquiescence  of  the  snow    .     .    :. 

And  what  if  there  were  an  issue  to  all  this 

That  leads  beyond  the  frontiers  of  the  snow 

To  frankness  of  new  skies? 

What  if  in  the  banishment  of  death 

We  meet  the  ambushed  confirmation  of  our  dream? 

And  find 

That  death  is  when  you  challenge  all  of  life? 

Shall  we  then  dread  the  solace  of  the  snow? 

And  if  we  cannot  follow  this  dim  leading, 

The  snow  still  is  not  unkind; 

For  it  isolates  our  human  love, 

And  leaves  us  two  alone  in  a  great  white  world, 

You  and  I,  alone,  and  with  us  love 

And  the  amplitude  of  soul  I'd  roof  you  with; 

My  soul,  like  a  hand's  palm  enclosing  you, 

And  its  first  faint  touches,  like  the  white  flowers  of 

the  snow, 
That  melt  in  anguish  against  your  loveliness — 
My  love  relentless  as  the  night, 
Undesisting  as  the  completed  storm, 
Quiet  as  the  white  breast  of  earth, 


205 


Stress  of  Snow 


Warm  as  the  candid  ardency  of  snow 
Consecrate  with  the  innocence  of  you.     .    .    . 

Suppose  we  don't  think  any  more? 

You  haven't  found  the  storm  so  very  harsh? 

Your  cheeks  are  glowing  and  your  eyes  are  calm; 

What  if  your  toes  are  cold? 

We'll  warm  them  now — 

We'll  scamper  down  the  frozen  hill, 

And  storm  the  darkened  house  and  light  it  up, 

And  give  a  quick  release  to  patient  logs, 

And  sit  close  by,  and  think  how  it  may  be 

Out  in  the  crisp  and  tinkling  night — 

And  we'll  be  drowsy,  and  keep  safe  and  warm 

Within  us  the  simplicities  of  snow. 


206 


STORIES 

BY   MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 

THE  wind  is  a  finger  on  the  pane, 
The  firs  a  cloak  across  the  snows, 
The  moon  a  lantern  down  the  lane, 
Where  an  old  witch-woman  goes; 
But  here  the  firelights  dance  and  lie. 
And  up  from  the  hearth  the  great  sparks  fly: 
While  the  cat  hums  sleepily. 

Gather  you  close  and  round  your  ear 
To  nurse's  voice  old  and  slow, 
While  nurse's  nose  makes  a  shadow  queer 
On  the  wall  where  the  fireflames  glow. 
Stretched  at  their  ease  the  two  dogs  snore, 
From  the  big  brown  bear  skin  on  the  floor: 
And  our  hair  stirs  creepily. 

.    .    .    Hist,  hark!    ...    A  crackling  spark — 
The  cat  hums  sleepily. 

On  winter  nights,  they  say,  they  say, 
When  everyone  is  fast  asleep, 
The  forest  dances  a  rare  gambade 
To  a  tune  the  small  stars  keep, 


207 


Stories 


And  all  the  pine  trees,  unafraid, 
Sway  in  a  limb-locked  black  charade 
Down  the  hillside  steep,  so  steep, 
The  shadowy  hillside  steep. 

O  then,  if  one  has  eyes  to  see, 

There  follows  the  quaintest  mystery, 

But  should  one  tell,  why  then,  why  well, 

They'd  turn  one  into  a  fairy  bell, 

Or  the  bole  of  an  old  oak  tree. 

.     .    .    Hist,  hark !    Just  a  spark — 

A  little  man,  with  cap  of  red, 

And  horn-brown  lamp  of  glow-worm  light, 

An  elfin  porter,  I've  heard  said, 

Comes  out  and  peers  around  the  night, 

And  then,  as  sudden  as  rain  drops  quite, 

The  forest  rustles  overhead: 

Rustles,  and  shivers,  and  laughs,  and  is  still, 

And  out  from  thicket,  and  out  from  hill, 

With  an  echo  of  horse  and  a  tinkle  of  horn, 

And  glittering  spears  of  a  half  inch  thorn, 

Rides  a  fairy  hunt,  as  sure  as  you're  born. 

With  'IViorte  Halloa!'  and  a  'Harke  Away' 

The  night  is  filled  with  tumult  gay ; 

But  save  you're  possessed  of  the  keenest  of  ears, 

You'd  think  it  the  crinkle  of  ice,  my  dears. 

Way  in  the  front  is  a  tiny  shape: 

Breath  of  my  body,  a  fairy  ape! 

No,  it's  a  spider!    No,  it's  a  bear! 

As  small  as  the  round  black  seed  of  a  pear! 


208 


Stories 


And  0  how  it  roars  as  it  bustles  and  bounds 
From  the  very  jaws  of  the  fairy  hounds. 
Down  the  valley,  and  everywhere; 
Up  the  hillside,  far  and  near, 
With  a  silver  call  and  a  faint  fanfare, 
And  a  'Ride  him  down!'  and  a  'Lend  me  your  spear!* 
Till  suddenly,  thrice,  and  loud,  and  clear, 
A  cock  crows  into  the  frosty  air, 
And  the  little  man  with  cap  of  red, 
Waves  his  lantern  above  his  head- 
So    .     .     .!     Then  one  by  one  the  stars  turn  white: 
Then,  cloaked  and  sandaled,  through  the  night, 
Before  you  know  it,  in  cowl  of  gray, 
Strides  the  bearded  palmer  day. 
The  forest  is  still,  but  the  old  black  oak 
Stir  in  their  sleep  and  chuckle  and  choke. 
.     .     .     .    Hist!     Hark!     What  was  that? 
Hu-ush !    Hu-ush !    Only  the  cat. 


209 


DARKNESS 

BY  KATHARINE  WISNER  MCCLTJSKEY 

WHEN  waking  in  the  hollow  dark,- 
A  microscopic  me ! — 
Both  eyes  are  pasted  shut  with  fear 
Of  something  I  might  see. 

But  when  a  floor  or  wall  rips  out 

A  curse  or  threat  or  cry, 
My  eyeballs  leap  out  in  the  night 

As  up  my  eyelids  fly. 

And  then  my  eyes  go  wandering, 

Hoping  to  find  a  star, 
But  if  they  do,  its  very  small, 

And  very  faint  and  far. 

They  try  to  reach  horizon's  edge; 

They  ache  as  on  they  plod; 
They  only  want  a  limit, 

A  something  less  than  God! 

But  when  there  is  a  breath  or  stir 

Of  someone  in  a  bed, 
A  comfortable,  human  sound, 

They  go  to  sleep  instead. 

210 


SONGS  FOR   PARENTS 

BY  JOHN   CHIPMAN  FAERAR 
WISH 

A  FROG'S  a  very  happy  thing, 
Cool  and  green  in  early  spring, 
Quick  and  silver  through  the  pool 
With  no  thought  of  books  or  school. 

Oh,  I  want  to  be  a  frog — 
Sunning,  stretching  on  a  log, 
Blinking  there  in  splendid  ease, 
Swimming  naked  when  I  please, 

Nosing  into  magic  nooks, 
Quiet  marshes,  noisy  brooks — 
Free !  and  fit  for  anything — 
Oh,  to  be  a  frog  in  spring! 

A  COMPARISON 

APPLE  blossoms  look  like  snow, 
They're  different,  though. 
Snow  falls  softly,  but  it  brings 
Noisy  things: 

Sleighs  and  bells,  forts  and  fights, 
Cosy  nights. 

211 


Songs  For  Parents 


But  apple  blossoms  when  they  go, 

White  and  slow, 

Quiet  all  the  orchard  space 

Till  the  place 

Hushed  with  falling  sweetness,  seems 

Filled  with  dreams. 

PARENTHOOD. 

r  I  ^HE  birches  that  dance  on  the  top  of  the  hill 
■*-    Are  so  slender  and  young  that  they  cannot  keep 
still. 
They  bend  and  they  nod  at  each  whiff  of  a  breeze, 
For  you  see  they  are  still  just  the  children  of  trees; 

But  the  bircnes  below  in  the  valley  are  older, 
They  are  calmer  and  straighter  and  taller  and  colder, 
Perhaps  when  we're  grown  up  as  solemn  and  grave, 
We,  too,  will  have  children  that  do  not  behave. 


212 


THE  WIND-GODS 

BY  PERCIVAL   ALLEN 

WE  fight  the  Wind-gods,  Mike  and  I, 
The  Wind-gods  blustering  from  the  sky, 
For,  as  we  shake  the  city  street, 
The  Wind-gods  and  our  engine  meet. 

Then,  when  I  let  her  out,  there  comes 
A  roaring  like  a  thousand  drums, 
The  Wind-gods  singing  in  our  ears, 
Stinging  our  straining  eyes  to  tears. 

Across  the  flats,  while  gaining  head, 

You  think  you  have  the  Wind-gods  dead, 

But  when  night  crowds  along  the  sky 

You  come  to  where  the  Wind-gods  lie, 

And  strike  the  cut  and  climb  the  hill 
While  all  around  grows  cold  and  chill, 
Then  suddenly  the  Wind-gods  leap 
Upon  you  as  you  skyward  creep, 

While  every  throbbing  rod  and  wheel, 
And  every  ounce  of  pushing  steel 
Are  straining  up  to  gain  the  crest, 
Against  the  sullen  Wind- gods  pressed. 


213 


The  Wind-Gods 


Mike  swings  the  door  and  then  the  light 
Leaps  out  upon  the  driving  night, 
And  shows  the  roll  of  twisting  clouds 
That  leave  the  stack  like  sooty  shrouds. 

The  Wind-gods  toss  the  sparks  up  high, 
Like  stars  against  the  moving  sky; 
Ahead  the  golden  puddles  shine 
Lit  by  the  headlight  on  the  line, 

And  up  we  climb  and  all  the  wnile 
The  fight  we're  winning  mile  by  mile. 
Watching  the  lightning  strike  the  rail 
And  break  into  a  silver  hail. 

We  reach  the  level  of  the  crest 
The  Wind- gods  for  a  moment  rest, 
And  then  they  follow  whistling  shrill 
As  down  the  grade  we  coast  the  hill, 

Mike  shouts  across  the  cab  to  me, 
"They  ain't  what  they're  cracked  up  to  be, 
I'll  give  'em  credit,  they  fought  hard!" — 
Then  'cross  the  switches  in  the  yard 

The  coaches  rattle  as  we  slow, 
And  all  those  sleepers  never  know 
How  Mike  and  I  along  the  route 
Tired  the  howling  Wind-gods  out. 


214 


THE   CHOOSING 

BY  RUTH   COMFORT   MITCHELL 

ASTERN-LIPPED  angel  stranger  lays  hold  upon 
my  hand; 
He  leads  me  out  with  Lot,  my  spouse;  across  the  pallid 

sand 
With  the  handful  of  The  Righteous  for  whom  the  Lord 

will  stand, 
Culled  from  merry  Sodom  and  Gomorrah. 

The  Righteous!    The  Righteous! 

Their  eyes  are  bleak  and  bright 

They  hunger  after  grace  by  day 

And  thirst  for  it  by  night. 

They  love  a  chill  Jehovah 

Who  is  pitiless  to  smite 

All  save  The  Righteous!    The  Righteous! 

Across  the  arid  desert  in  the  tender,  new-born  day, 
Away  from  mirth  and  melody  which  august  wrath  will 

slay, 
Away  from  sleeping  Sodomites,  the  friendly  and  the 

gay, 
And  the  pleasant  wicked  in  Gomorrah! 


215 


The  Choosing 


Across  the  parching  desert  they  are  leading  me  in 

haste, 
Away    from    green    and    growing    things    toward    a 

trackless  waste, 
From  the  merry  Sodom  sinner,  forsaken  and  disgraced, 
And  the  pleasant  wicked  in  Gomorrah ! 

The  Righteous!  The  Righteous! 

Their  feet  are  fleet  with  fear. 

They  speed  with  eyes  that  strain  ahead. 

And  yet  they  pant  to  hear 

The  scalding  rain  of  brimstone 

On  the  cities  they  held  dear; 

Such  be  The  Righteous!    The  Righteous! 

Now  I  was  born  a  Righteous  and  The  Righteous  are 

my  kin, 
And  gates  of  bliss  shall  open  wide  to  welcome  me 

within, 
Yet  Sodom  sinners  are  my  friends,  so  I  love  sin, 
And  the  pleasant  wicked  in  Gomorrah! 

The  Righteous!    The  Righteous! 

My  tears  will  make  me  blind. 

My  tears  are  salt  upon  my  lip. 

I  cannot  leave  behind 

To  sear  in  lonely  brimstone 

The  merry  and  the  kind. 

Saving  my  soul  with  The  Righteous! 


216 


The  Choosing 


Pale  Lot  and  august  Abraham  .  .  .  the  awful- 
angel  guide    . 

I  work  my  fingers  from  his  grasp  .  .  .  and  now  I 
slip  aside    .     .     . 

The  sky  is  red  with  Righteous  Wrath,  but  I  would 
rather  bide 

With  the  pleasant  wicked  in  Go 


217 


MRS.   SENATOR   JONES 

BY  ELLIOTT  C.  LINCOLN 

'The Bridge  Club  met  at  the  home  of  Mrs. 

on  Wednesday  last.    Mrs.  Senator  Tom  Jones, 


a  pioneer  of County,  made  high  score,  the  prize 

being  a  pair  of  silk  stockings." 

Item  from  the  society  column  of  any  weekly  paper  in 
the  North-west 

WOULD  you  tell  an  old  pal,  Mrs.  Senator  Jones, 
If  the  stuff  that  he's  reading  is  true? 
Was  something  wrong  with  the  dealer's  box 
That  the  bank  paid  nothing  but  four-bit  sox 
To  her  that  was  Boston  Lou? 

Now  honestly,  didn't  you  grin  at  yourself, 
Sitting  in  at  that  ladylike  game? 
Did  you  think  of  the  days  when  chips  was  few? 
Did  the  cards  behave  like  they  used  to  do? 
Did  a  full  house  look  the  same? 

Remember  the  night,  down  at  Timothy's  place 
When  you  emptied  your  poke  on  the  black, 
An'  the  wheel  spun  round,  an'  it  left  you  broke, 
An'  you  laughed  as  if  it  was  all  a  joke, 
An'  you  slapped  old  Tim  on  the  back? 

218 


Mrs.  Senator  Jones 


Remember  the  smoke,  an'  the  dealer's  drone, 
An'  the  click  of  the  ivory  ball? 
The  big  game  running  on  day  an'  night, 
With  twenty  thousand,  gold,  in  sight, 
And  the  hush  when  a  man  would  call? 

Ain't  there  plenty  of  times,  Mrs.  Senator  Jones, 
When  the  looking-glass  shows  you're,  well,  plump, 
That  something  pulls  at  you  from  the  Past, 
Till  you  have  to  talk  pretty  loud  an'  fast 
To  keep  down  that  rising  lump? 

Say,  Lou,  when  you  feel  it's  a  mighty  big  job 
Living  up  to  that  "Senator"  stuff, 
Jest  remember  the  old  gang's  kind  of  proud 
To  have  Lou  one  of  the  top-notch  crowd; 
Set  your  teeth,  keep  a-fighting — an'  bluff! 


219 


THE   LAST   SPEECH   OF   SILENT   SAM 

BY   JOHN   T.   TROTH 

DO  I  remember  Silent  Sam? 
Say,  who'd  forget  a  guy- 
That  never  spoke  no  moro'n  a  clam 

Till  when  he  come  to  die! 
It's  fourteen  year  since  St.  Cassien 

First  lamped  that  noisy  gink, 
An'  he  never  cracked  his  jaws,  but  when 
He'd  crook  his  arm  to  drink ! 

You  reckon 'd  he  was  livin'  still  1 

Say,  Pal,  are  you  all  right? 
Why  all  the  way  to  Rocky  Spill 

Men  tell  about  that  night! 
Say,  grab  that  coyote-eared  Canuck, 

And  stand  me  to  a  dram, 

And  hear  how  righteous  anger  bruk 
The  fast  of  Silent  Sam. 

Twas  in  old  square-head  Jason's  hell; — 
The  old  Elite  Saloon: 

Twas  Sunday  night,  bad  luck,  as  well, 
An'  the  thirteenth  day  o'  June: 


220 


The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam 

And  every  cussed  lumber- jack 

For  twenty  mile  aroun', 
From  St.  Pierre  to  Pied-du-Lac, 

Had  dragged  his  thirst  to  town! 

Outside  the  night  hung  thick  a3  fat, 

Inside  'twas  bright  as  day; 
Behind  the  old  pianner  sat 

MacGregor  from  Beaupre, — 
With  Jean  Ladoux  a'  fiddlin'  fast 

Enough  to  break  a  trace: 
And  all  the  boys  was  sittin',  massed 

About  the  dancin'  space. 

There  was  old  "Fi-donc"  an'  Gun-shy  Jim, 

(The  one  that  knifed  Duneen) 
Big  Voix-du-Loup,  an'  Six-toed  Slim, 

And  some  I  never  seen. 
Poor  Silent  Sam,  blear-eyed  an'  gone, 

Sat  soppin'  up  the  "stuff," 
A'  scribblin'  po'try,  written'  on 

His  frayed  an'  dirty  cuff. 

The  dancers  scraped  across  the  floor; 

The  music  banged  an'  whined: 
But  he  never  turned  a  hair,  no  more 

Than  if  he  was  deef  an'  blind! 
The  lamps  flared  up,  the  blue  smoke  swam, 

It  eddied,  ducked,  an'  curved; 
And  through  it  Desiree  Laflamme 

Ole  Jason's  whiskey  served. 

221 


The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam 

Where  she  came  from,  nobody  knew; — 

Just  one  of  Jason's  girls: 
With  pretty  ways,  and  eyes  grey-blue, 

And  sunny,  tangled  curls. 
You  know  the  kind !    And  yet,  she  seemed, 

In  some  perplexin'  way, 
Clean  different  from  the  rest,  that  schemed 

To  nab  the  fellers'  pay. 

The  sight  of  her  brought  to  your  mind 

All  queer,  an'  dim,  an'  blurred, 
Forgotten  things  left  far  behind, 

You'd  seen,  or  felt,  or  heard. 
She  didn't  look  like  she  was  part 

Of  that  there  rough-neck  crowd ; 
You  felt,  somehow,  she  had  a  heart, 

And  her  greeting  left  you  proud! 

She  treated  all  us  "jacks"  the  same; 

We  called  her  "Jason's  Wine": 
A  million  times  I've  left  the  game 

To  watch  her  beauty  shine 
Like  some  bright  vision,  to  an'  fro' 

Beneath  the  smoke-blued  light: 
But  her  sweetness  seemed  to  overflow 

And  flood  the  room,  that  night! 

The  dancers  scraped  across  the  floor, 
The  music  banged  and  whined: 

When,  all  at  once,  the  open  door 
Shut  with  a  slam,  behind 

222 


The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam 

Two  "forty-eights"  that  searched  the  room 

With  their  circlin'  bead  on  us, 
An'  back  o'  them,  with  the  face  of  doom, 

Stood  a  touchy-lookin'  cuss! 

The  dancin'  stopped!    Our  hands  uprose 

A'  drippin'  cards  an'  chips: 
An'  Sam's  good  drinkin'  fist  was  froze 

Just  halfway  to  his  lips! 
The  music  choked,  an'  died  away; — 

A  spell  seemed  on  the  place! 
Only  the  lights  flared  up,  to  play 

Upon  the  stranger's  face! 

His  eyes  shot  straight  where  Desiree 

Stood  starin',  lips  apart: 
One  white  hand  held  her  little  tray, 

The  other  clutched  her  heart ! 
"You  fooled  me,  eh?    You  think  you're  free!" 

The  snarlin',  black  lips  said: 
"You're  free  to  choose, — this  dump,  or  me;— 

But  if  you  stay,  it's  dead!" 

A  second  ticked; — we  held  our  breaths: 

Then  snapped  her  answer  "Shoot! 
"I'd  rather  die  a  hundred  deaths 

With  men,  than  serve  a  brute!" 
Then  some  one  surged  across  the  floor  t 

Things  happened  lightnin'  fast! 
A  scream!  a  shot, — an'  then  a  score! 

The  spell  was  broke  at  last! 

223 


The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam 

And  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away- 
One  corpse  enhanced  the  scene: 

But,  with  his  back  to  Desiree, 
Swayed  Silent  Sam,  drilled  clean! 

He  clutched  the  bar, — it  seemed  to  each 
As  if  the  stranger's  lead 

Had  touched  the  spring  of  long-pent  speech, 
For  this  is  what  Sam  said: 

"What  this  fizz-bang  was, — wrong,  er  right, 

We  neither  know  nor  care! 
The  p'int  is,  every  man,  this  night, 

His  love-debt  did  forswear! 
An'  if  there  is  a  God  on  high, 

Well,  He  don't  give  a  damn 
For  dogs  that  lacked  the  guts  to  die 

For  Desiree  Laflamme!" 

He  glared  at  us  a  minute,  then 

His  face  went  ashen  grey; 
But  no  pain  was  writ  upon  it  when 

He  smiled  at  Desiree! 
An'  then  Sam  sort  o'  crumpled  up, — 

She  caught  him  as  he  fell: 
And  each  man,  like  a  beaten  pup, 

Slunk  out— an'  Slim  said  "Hell!" 


Right  where  the  settin'  sun  last  gleams 
On  wind-swept  Golden  Butte 

224 


The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam 

We  buried  him:  wrapped  in  their  dreams 

The  other  graves  lie  mute, 
But  Sam  speaks  plain,  without  reserve, 

And  tells  us,  twice  each  day, 
How  we  sat  bluffed,  and  lacked  the  nerve 

To  draw  for  Desiree ! 

I  used  to  smoke,  an'  watch  the  jam 

Of  logs  below  the  flume, 
An'  try  to  figger  out  what  Sam 

Still  muttered  from  his  tomb: 
What  was  the  "love-debt"  we'd  forsworn? 

Who  was  /  owin'  to? 
Why,  I'd  played  straight  since  I  was  born! 

Then,  all  at  once,  I  knewl 

He  meant  the  debt  no  man  can  square, 

The  debt  that  grows  and  grows ! 
That  for  his  mother's  tender  care 

Each  man  forever  owes. 
So,  Pal,  here's  hopin'  if,  some  day 

Some  Desiree  Laflamme 
Has  need  of  you  or  me',  we'll  pay 

Our  debt  like  Silent  Sam  I 


225 


THE   OLD   GODS  MARCH 

BY  LEYLAND  HUCKFIELD 

THE  grim  gods  of  the  past  have  arisen, 
The  black  swamps  throb  and  the  mountains  boom 
And  the  dust  from  their  iron-sandalled  feet 
Shrouds  the  sun  in  a  blood-red  gloom: 
Out  of  the  Northern  mountain  passes 
Flame  the  banners  and  glare  the  swords, 
The  old  gods  march  from  their  wild  morasses 
The  old  gods  march  with  their  ancient  hordes, 
With  scarlet  banners  and  songs  of  death; 
From  marshes  white  with  the  bitter  brine 
The  boar-herds  gather,  the  wolf-clans  whine 
Till  the  land  is  foul  with  their  streaming  breath: 
And  the  old  gods  bellow,  the  old  gods  roar, 
And  the  hills  shake  and  the  grey  seas  rave, 
For  the  old  gods  march  with  a  thundering  tread 
Whose  echoes  thrill  in  the  nether  wave, 
Shaking  the  bones  of  a  myriad  dead 
As  in  red  days  of  yore. 

Glare  of  torches  in  dead  men's  eyes 
And  black  nights  lit  by  towns  aflare, 
And  things  of  horror  and  claws  that  tear, 
And  reeking  rivers  that  bloodily  rise 
To  the  old  gods'  tempest  blare. 


226 


The  Old  Gods  March 


Banners  black  with  the  blood  and  smoke 
High  in  the  eddying  battle  van, 
And  great  swords  red  with  the  murder-stroke, 
And  torches  aflame  as  the  night  comes  on — 
For  the  old  gods  march  in  the  shape  of  man, 
The  old  gods  march — sweet  days  are  done — 
Tia  fires  of  home  or  the  fires  of  hate? 
There  is  no  choice  in  the  wide  world — none— 
But  we  must  stand  where  the  old  gods  tread, 
In  ranks  of  steel,  and  steady  and  grim 
Chanting  the  sweet,  wild  battle-hymn 
That  the  old  gods  hate  and  dread. 


227 


LIFE   AS   A   GAGE   YOU   FLUNG 

BY  JOHN   PIERRE  ROCHE 

THERE  in  an  alien  land 
Lie  quietly, 
Alien  no  longer  now 

For  you  and  me. 
Fragrant  the  thoughts  of  you, 

Rare  was  your  soul; 
Life  as  a  gage  you  flung, 
Facing  the  goal. 

Life  as  a  gage  you  flung, 

Flung  as  a  rose; 
Gave  it  as  gentry  do 

Gladly  to  those 
Who  gave  their  glowing  youth 

Gladly  as  you. 
Live  in  the  heart  of  me — 

I  gave  you,  too. 


228 


LARGESS 

LESLIE  NELSON   JENNINGS 

NOW  Death  has  done  its  final  violence, 
Let  us  with  tearless,  fearless  eyes  compute 
This  last,  earth-rendered  score,  and  so  salute 
With  equal  largess  his  munificence. 
Youth  was  a  thing  to  spend;  with  lavish  hand 
He  scattered  this  incalculably  fine 
And  precious  coinage,  meeting  with  divine 
Extravagance  each  miserly  demand. 

Shall  we,  in  this  ungenerous  moment,  wrung 
By  selfish  pity,  hoard  him  in  some  dim, 

Grief-guarded  chamber  of  the  heart's  distress? 
Nay!    Rather  cast  his  name  like  gold  among 
Those  laughter- loving  ones  who  lived  by  him, 
That  they  may  never  know  his  emptiness. 


229 


A  PRAYER 

BY  WILLIAM   LAIRD 

IORD,  make  my  childish  soul  stand  straight 
-*  To  meet  the  kindly  stranger,  Fate; 
Shake  hands  with  elder  brother,  Doom, 
Nor  bawl,  nor  scurry  from  the  room. 


230 


WESTWARD 

BY  WILLIAM  LAIRD 

WESTWARD  the  Happy  Islands  hide 
Where  the  Greeks  knew  their  heroes  went 
To  take  their  hire  for  toil,  and  bide 
Remembering  much,  in  all  content. 

And  if  folk-phrases  still  hold  truth — 
Strong  meat  within  a  warding  rind — 

Out  of  our  war,  the  chosen  youth 
Pass  west,  and  walks  amongst  their  kind. 

Their  elder  brethren  there,  I  think, 
Change  tale  for  tale  with  manly  joy; 

And  iron  names  pass  over  the  drink: 
Verdun — Propontis — Aisne — Marne — Troy. 

Ulysses  scans  the  tangled  lines 

A  sapper  draws,  of  trench  and  bridge; 

And  laughs  to  hear  of  burrowing  mines 
That  cleared  and  won  a  bloody  ridge. 

Jason,  hearing  from  sailor  men 

Terse,  salty  gossip  of  the  Fleet, 
Feels  in  his  fist  an  oar  again, 

Argo  leaping  under  his  feet. 


231 


Westward 


And  one  who  breathed  of  middle  air 
And  died  in  flight — at  ease  upon 

A  wind-befriended  hillock  there, 
Holds  converse  with  Bellerophon. 

Folk-phrases  still  hold  truth:  their  clay— 
Shell-smashed,  gas-livid — left  behind, 

Our  mother  takes  and  uses:  They 

Pass  west,  and  walk  amongst  {heir  kind. 


232 


GEE-UP  DAR,  MULES 

BY  EDWIN   FORD  PIPER 

HE  stood  up  in  our  khaki  with  the  poise 
Of  perfect  soldiership  beneath  the  praise 
Of  the  French  officer.    We  caught  the  words, 
"Conspicuous  courage,"  "bringing  wounded  in," 
And  "decorated  with  the  cross  of  war." 

Black- faced?    Yes,  just»a  nigger.    Nine  months  since 
He  drove  a  span  of  bony  cotton  mules, 
And  never  had  been  out  of  Jasper  County 
In  Georgia,  U.  S.  A. 

They  drafted  him, 
Shipped  him  to  barracks,  broke  him  into  drill; 
It  was  a  changeling's  life.     I  saw  the  lad 
After  his  first  three  days  in  cantonment; 
He  had  just  finished  polishing  his  teeth, — 
Novel  achievement,  and  he  swung  the  brush 
With  beat  ecstatic,  chanting  joyously: 

"Lordy,  lordy,  got  a  toothbresh, 
Lordy,  lordy,  got  a  toothbresh, 
Lordy,  lordy,  got  a  toothbresh, 
And  I'll  go  to  heaven  on  a-high!" 

Perhaps  he  sings  now  of  the  service  medal, 
Or  of  some  other  meager  badge  or  symbol 

233 


Gee-Up  Bar,  Mules 


Out  of  that  rich  and  shattering  experience 
Hurled  round  his  simple  soul.    With  hasty  hand, 
Life  sweeps  a  loaded  vivifying  brush 
Over  his  old  dull  past. 

And  yet,  I  like 
To  think  he  will  come  back  to  Jasper  County; 
I  pictured  him  in  patched  and  faded  denims ; 
Over  the  wagon  wheel  he  mounts  the  seat, 
Evens  the  lines  so  the  lead  team  won't  jerk, 
Then  all  together  the  four  nervous  mules 
Will  straighten  tugs,  dig  in  their  toes,  and  pull. 
She  shakes,  she  creaks,  she  rolls ! 

"Gee-up  dar,  mules!" 

"General  Foch  is  a  fine  old  French, 
He  puts  us  niggers  in  a  front  line  trench ; 
The  barb-wire  down,  and  the  barrage  begun, — 
Boche  see  a  nigger,  and  the  Boche  he  run, 

0  po'  mourner ! 

You  shall  be  free 

When  the  good  Lord  sets  you  free! 

"0, 1  hitched  up  the  mules,  and  the  mules  worked  fine; 
I  hitched  'em  to  that  Hinnenburg  line, 
I  drawed  her  back  till  I  snagged  her  on  the  Rhine, 
An'  the  boss  come  along,  and  he  give  me  my  time. 

0  po'  mourner ! 

You  shall  be  free 

When  the  good  Lord  sets  you  free. 
Gwan-n,  mules!    Gee-up  dar,  mules!" 

234 


THE   DRAFTED   MOUNTAINEER 
SALUTES 

BY   HORTENSE  FLEXNEE 

THE  high  and  silent  hills  are  part  of  him; 
He  knows  the  creek-bed  road,  the  tug  and  sway 
Of  pines  above  the  mountain's  windy  rim, 

Touch  of  the  dawn  and  dusk.     His  unmarked  day 
He  used  to  spend  working  ithe  rusty  ground 

Beside  his  hut,  or  drowsing  at  the  door; 
Few  words  he  had  for  men — the  peaks  around 

Gave  him  companionship  and  something  more. 
Here  in  the  narrow  camp  he  can  not  find 

His  world;  orders  and  uniform  are  strange; 
He  tries  to  learn,  but  is  too  slow,  too  blind 

With  distance  and  the  sleeping  skies,  to  change, 
When  he  salutes — for  all  the  noise,  the  crowd, 
It  is  as  if  a  hill  had  strangely  bowed. 


235 


SEKHMET,  THE   LION-HEADED* 

BY  LEONORA   SPEYER 

IN  the  dark  night  I  heard  a  purring, 
Near  me  something  was  stirring. 

A  voice,  deep-throated,  spoke: 

I  litter  armies  for  all  easts  and  wests 

And  norths  and  souths: 

They  suckle  my  girl-goddess  breasts, 

And  my  fierce  milk  drips  from  their  mouths. 

The  voice  sang: 

I  do  not  kill!    I,  Sekhmet  the  Lion-headed,  I! 
But  between  my  soft  hands  they  die. 

I  asked: 

O  Sekhmet,  Lion-headed  one, 
How  long  shall  warring  be? 

And  Sekhmet  deigned  to  make  reply: 

Eternally ! 


♦Egyptian  Goddess  of  War  and  Strife. 
236 


Sekhmet,  the  Lion-Headed 


Bold  in  my  faith  I  grew: 

Dread  goddess-cat,  you  lie! 
Warring  shall  cease! 
My  God  of  love  is  greater  far 
Than  you! 

How  gentle  was  the  voice  of  Sekhmet  then: 

He  of  the  Star? 

He  Whom  they  called  the  Prince  of  Peace— 

And  slew? 

And  slew  again — and  yet  again? — 

Ah  yes! — she  said. 

And  all  about  my  bed 

The  night  grew  laughing-red: 

Sekhmet  I  did  not  see, 

But  in  that  bleeding  dusk  I  heard 

That  Sekhmet  purred. 


237 


THE  TAKING  OF  BAGDAD 

BY   KADRA   MAYSI 

HAD  you  taken  Rome  of  story,  you  had  taken 
pomp  and  glory ; 
Had  you  taken  Codrus'  Athens,  where  the  broken 
marbles  gleam, 
You  had  taken  all  the  beauty  of  Ionia  for  your  duty — 
Where  you  took  the  courts  of  Bagdad,  there  you  took 
the  courts  of  dream! 

Did  the  sacred  pave,  I  wonder,  break  before  a  genii 
■   thunder 
Underneath  the  cursed  marching  of  the  Christians  in 
the  street? 
When  the  muezzins  are  calling,  while  the  eastern  dusk 
is  falling, 
Do  you  smell  the  orange  blossoms  and  Damascus 
roses  sweet? 

Are  there  veiled,  averted  faces  which  you  pass  in 
sheltered  places 
With  a  heavy  scent  of  attar  and  a  sheen  of  cloth-of- 
gold? 
Have  you  found  a  caliph's  chalice  in  some  minaretted 
palace, 
Or   the   key   to    mosque    and    chamber   such    as 
Scherezade  told? 

238 


The  Talcing  of  Bagdad 


Under  olive  groves  enchanted,  where  the  date  and  fig 
are  planted, 
Do  you  follow  as  the  byways  of  the  secret  gardens 
lead? 
Where  the  nightingales  are  singing  and  the  blazing 
pheasants  winging, 
Have  you  found,  bewitched,  a  princess  hid  in  a 
pomegranate  seed? 

Had  you  broken  Persia's  pinions,  when  the  satraps 
sent  their  minions 
To  the  westward  of  the  Iran  for  an  empire  supreme, 
You  had  taken  all  the  splendour  of  which  Asia  was  the 
vender — 
When  you  took  the  courts  of  Bagdad,  then  you  took 
the  courts  of  dream  1 


239 


BETRAYAL  AND  ABSOLUTION 

BY  0.   R.   HOWARD  THOMSON 


GOD  pardon  me!    While  cannon  spit  and  roar, 
And  dying  men  sob  in  their  agony 
I  am  athirst,  e'en  as  I  was  of  yore, 

For  draughts  of  beauty's  cleansing  ecstasy. 
Nature's  fair  loveliness,  that,  like  a  glass, 

Mirrors  the  power  that  animates  all  space, 
Strikes  in  my  breast  strange  chords,  that  sing  and  pass, 

Leaving  me  breathless  with  an  upturned  face, 
Held  by  the  white  clouds'  fleecy  argosies. 

I  am  seduced  by  choirs  on  outstretched  wings; 
Intrigued  by  perfumes  of  the  orchard  trees; 

Slave  to  the  dark  wood's  Pan-born  murmurings 
And  to  the  wind-flowers  on  the  grassy  knoll 
God  pardon  me;  but  Beauty  snares  my  soul! 

II 

Yet  beauty  is  the  leaven  that  makes  sweet 

The  world,  that  else  had  nought  to  show  but  pain, 

Moving  amidst  us  on  her  sandaled  feet 
With  healing  such  as  comes  of  April  rain. 

Unheralded,  unhymned,  she  whispers  to  her  own, 


240 


Betrayal  and  Absolution 


With  voice  like  softly  fingered  psaltery, 
Her  silver  veil,  a  moment,  backward  thrown 

To  comfort  us  in  our  great  misery; 
That  we  may  catch,  through  looking  on  her  face, 

Some  hint  of  that,  beyond  the  outmost  stars, 
Which  transcends  boundaries  of  time  and  space 

And  frees  the  soul  of  its  material  bars: 
Timeless  and  ageless;  the  locked  door  and  the  key; 
The  answer  sought;  the  unsolved  mystery  1 


241 


CANDLE   FAMINE   IN   PARIS 

BY  LOUISE  TOWNSEND   NICHOLL 

f  f /^ANDLE  Famine  in  Paris"  the  clipping  read, 

^^  And  I  forgot  the  paper  and  saw  instead 
A  dim,  old  French  Cathedral,  in  the  far,  first  week  of 

war, 
Lit  by  candle  and  taper,  and  by  a  strand  of  sunlight 
A-slant  on  the  knee- worn  floor. 

("Candle  Famine  in  Paris" 

Is  a  light  and  flickering  name. 

These  words  are  spun  of  a  delicate  gold 

Which  is  kin  to  a  candle's  flame. 

For  who  could  say  in  dark  words 

That  Paris  lacks  for  light, 

When  all  of  France  is  a  flaming  torch 

Held  up  to  meet  the  night?) 

The  Cathedral  was  darkened  with  women  who  knelt 

to  niched  Saints, 
And  told  anew  on  silent  beads  the  ancient  wartime 

plaints. 
Some  were  old  and  their  beads  slipped  slow — 
Some  were  young  for  the  ancient  woe — 
But  in  the  dusk  and  the  silence,  each  woman  as  she 

came 


242 


Candle  Famine  in  Paris 


Lighted  a  tall,  white  taper  and  her  prayer  went  up  in 

flame. 
Each  woman  left  a  candle  there 
And  every  candle  was  a  prayer. 
Each  one  lighted  her  taper  from  the  flame  of  the  one 

before, 
Till  separate  prayers  were  merged  in  one — and  that 

for  France  at  war. 

Month  and  year  the  war  went  on,  and  day  and  night. 

The  edict  then  went  out  to  use  no  other  light. 

They  took  the  candles  to  live  by,  for  common  what 

was  divine. 
All  Paris  was  a  Cathedral,  and  every  home  a  shrine. 

Now  there  is  famine  in  Paris ; 

Famine  of  light  in  Paris; 

In  radiant,  wartime  Paris 

The  lesser  lights  are  out. 

What  need  of  candles  in  Paris  when  day  itself  is  there? 

What  need  of  lighted  tapers  when  daily  life  is  prayer? 

And  candles  would  give  but  a  flickering  light 

At  the  feet  and  the  head 

Of  the  men  who  are  dead 

In  the  fields  of  France  at  night. 

("Candle  Famine  in  Paris" 
Is  a  light  and  flickering  name. 
These  words  are  spun  of  a  delicate  gold 
Which  is  kin  to  a  candle's  flame. 

243 


Candle  Famine  in  Paris 


For  who  could  say  in  dark  words 
That  Paris  lacks  for  light, 
When  all  of  France  is  a  flaming  torch 
Held  up  to  meet  the  night?) 


244 


IT  IS  NOT  STRANGE 

BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

IT  is  not  strange,  yet  it  is  ever  strange, 
This  host  of  angels  waiting  in  the  air 
Far  as  the  utmost  rim  and  range 
Of  thought  and  unimaginable  love. 

The  soft  wing  of  a  dove 
In  flight  is  strange,  yettis  not  strange. 
Nor  is  the  heart  more  strange  that  leaps  and  flies  away 
Beyond  the  touch  of  hunter  and  of  clay. 

0  let  no  hunter  come  to  snare 
The  heart  and  clip 

Its  wings !    Hunters  are  visible  who  trap  a  bird. 
But  hunters  go  unseen,  unheard, 
Go  stalking  ever  with  a  care 
To  catch  the  heart, 
To  shut  it  up  apart 
From  love  and  the  free  air    .    .    . 

0  therefore  let  your  hearts  look  high  and  slip 
And  range 

Far  as  the  utmost  rim  of  love, 
Till  they  have  felt  the  unimaginable  change 
And  are  themselves  the  angels  in  the  air! 


245 


PEACE 

BY  FRANCES  DICKENSON  PINDEB 

PEACE!— 
What  roof  could  house  the  glory  of  the  word — 
What  walls  encompass  its  infinity? 
I  ran  beneath  the  open  sky  and  heard 
The  challenge  of  its  glad  divinity 
Break  in  a  silver  surf  against  the  stars! 

And  then,  athwart  the  silence,  like  a  song 

Across  still  waters  when  the  wind's  asleep, 

I  heard  the  happy  Dead's  pale  legions  throng, 

Chanting  of  victory,  as  deep  calls  to  deep — 

Out  where  Life's  last  sweet  gate  of  love  unbars  I    .   , 

And  knelt,  and  knew  the  world-heart  kneeling,  too, 

In  dumb  thanksgiving  too  profound  for  prayer, 

Until  with  ecstasy  it  overflowed 

And  flung  joy,  like  red  roses,  on  the  air, 

While  Dawn  trod  out  the  scattered  torch  of  Mars  I 


246 


THIS   SOLDIER   GENERATION 

BY   WILLIAM   ALEXANDER   PERCY 

WE  are  the  sons  of  disaster, 
Deserted  by  gods  that  are  named, 
Thrust  in  a  world  with  no  master, 
Our  altars  prepared  but  unclaimed, 
Wreathed  with  the  blood-purple  aster, 
Victims,  foredoomed,  but  untamed. 

Behold,  without  faith  we  are  fashioned, 
Bereft  the  assuaging  of  lies. 
Thirsty  for  dreams  we  have  passioned 
Yet  more  for  truth  that  denies. 
Aware  that  no  powers  compassioned 
We  have  grown  very  lonely  and  wise. 

Leisure  we  loved  and  laughter, 
Our  portion  is  labor  and  pain, 
For  home  we  are  given  a  rafter 
Of  storm  and  a  lintel  of  rain, 
And  all  that  our  hearts  followed  after 
Is  taken  and  naught  doth  remain. 

Yet  never  a  new  generation 

But  shall  live  by  the  battles  we  fight 

And  prosper  of  our  immolation 

247 


This  Soldier  Generation 


And  reap  of  our  anguish  delight. 
Accepting  the  great  abnegation, 
We  are  fathers,  not  children,  of  light. 

Bruised  with  the  scourges  of  sorrow, 
Broke  with  the  terrible  rod, 
Bidden  for  respite  to  borrow 
A  poppy-red  swarthe  of  the  sod, 
Yet  this  is  our  hope:  that  tomorrow 
Will  yield  of  our  strivings — God. 


248 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INDEX  TO  POETS 
REPRESENTED 

ALLEN,  PERCIVAL.    A  Philadelphian,  engaged  in 
banking.    The  poem  here  quoted  was  specially  ad- 
mired by  John  Masefield. 
The  Wind-Gods. 

ANDERSON,  DOROTHY  (Mrs.  Philip  B.  Hoge). 
Has  led  a  wandering  existence  as  the  daughter  of  a 
naval  officer.    Has  appeared  principally  in  C.  V. 

A  Revenant. 

My  Soul  is  a  Moth. 

BAKER,  KARLE  WILSON.  Mrs.  Baker  is  the  au- 
thor of  a  volume  entitled  "Blue  Smoke"  and  a  con- 
tributor to  leading  magazines,  notably  The  Yale 
Review.  Born  at  Little  Rock,  Arkansas;  now  living 
in  Nacogdoches,  Tex. 
Three  Poems — 

I  Love  the  Friendly  Faces  of  Old  Sorrows. 
Death  the  Highwayman. 
Morning  Song. 

BARRETT,   WILTON   AGNEW.     A   graduate   of 
Pennsylvania  now  resident  in  New  York.     Con- 
tributor to  magazines  and  author  of  a  volume. 
A  Dead  Man. 


249 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

BENET,  WILLIAM  ROSE.  Now  assistant  editor  of 
the  Book  Section  of  The  New  York  Evening  Post. 
Widely  known  as  a  poet  both  in  magazines  and  in 
some  four  volumes  of  lyrics  and  narratives. 

The  Push-Cart. 
BIRD,  STEPHEN  MOYLAN.  A  native  of  Galves- 
ton. Died  in  West  Point  Military  Academy  Janu- 
ary 1,  1919,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  Contributed 
only  to  Contemporary  Verse,  where  his  poems  at- 
tracted wide  attention.  So  important  a  critic  as  the 
late  Professor  Francis  B.  Gummere  wrote  of  him: 
"His  verses  will  be  read  and  valued,  I  think,  when 
most  of  the  poetry  that  now  makes  loud  appeal  is 
forgotten."  A  volume  of  his  poetry  is  in  preparation. 

What  if  the  Lapse  of  Ages  Were  a  Dream? 

May. 

In  the  Sky  Garden. 
BRADFORD,  GAMALIEL.  Lives  at  Wellesley  Hills, 
Mass.  The  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse, 
besides  the  brilliant  historical  portraits  which  have 
been  for  many  years  a  feature  of  the  Atlantic.  His 
latest  lyrics  will  also  appear  soon  in  book  form. 

The  Tissue. 

My  Youth. 

Brown  Leaves. 

The  Drone. 

Expenses. 

The  Dainty  Virtue. 

Rousseau. 

God. 

250 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

BROWN,  ABBIE  FARWELL.  A  Bostonian,  best 
known  for  her  children's  books,  but  also  a  con- 
tributor of  verse  to  Harper's,  Bookman,  etc.  Her 
poetry  has  been  collected  in  book  form  more  than 
once;  and  a  new  book  will  appear  in  the  Fall. 
Tanager. 

BURT,  MAXWELL  STRUTHERS.  Originally  a 
Philadelphian,  he  now  lives  chiefly  in  Wyoming. 
One  of  the  leading  younger  writers  of  fiction,  also 
the  author  of  a  poetry  volume  "Among  the  High 
Hills." 

Fishing. 

Stories. 

BYNNER,  WITTER.  Resident  in  New  York,  but  an 
ardent  traveller,  especially  in  the  far  east.  His 
work  as  poet  and  playwright  is  known  to  all  who  are 
conversant  with  the  field. 

The  Two  Drinkers  (Translated  from  the  French 

of  Charles  Vildrac). 
It  is  not  Strange. 

COATES,  ARCHIE  AUSTIN.    Assistant  Editor  of 
Life.     Has  published  a  volume,  besides  appearing 
widely  in  popular  magazines. 
Summer  Sea. 

COATSWORTH,  ELIZABETH  J.  Has  lived  mainly 
at  Pasadena  but  is  now  in  Boston.  Best  known  for 
her  Japanesque  lyrics,  which  have  been  widely 
printed. 

Loneliness. 

251 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

CONKLING,  GRACE  HAZARD.  Mrs.  Conkling  is  a 
professor  at  Smith  College.  Known  to  all  readers 
of  present-day  poetry ;  the  author  of  "Afternoons  in 
April."  She  expects  to  publish  a  new  volume 
shortly. 

A  Song  for  My  Father. 

Dusk  in  the  Garden. 

QREW,   HELEN   COALE.     A   Graduate   of  Bryn 
Mawr,  last  heard  of  as  in  Baltimore. 
These  Are  Thy  Sheep,  Theocritus. 

CURTIS,   CHRISTINE  TURNER.     A  New  Eng- 
lander  who  has  begun  to  appear  in  American  and 
Canadian  periodicals. 
Under  Autumn  Trees. 

DAVIES,  MARY  CAROLYN  (Mrs.  Leland  Davis). 
Alternates  between  New  York  City  and  Washington 
State.  A  frequent  contributor  to  magazines,  and 
author  of  "Drums  in  Our  Street." 

The  Door. 

Forest  Dance. 

DE  LA  SELVA,  SALOMON.    A  Nicaraguan  who  has 
immigrated  to  New  York.     Author  of  "Tropical 
Town  and  Other  Poems." 
The  Singer  Exults. 

DRACHM  AN,  JULIAN  M.  Born  in  Greece;  at  pres- 
ent in  New  York. 

Fire- Weed  in  the  Forest. 


252 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

DRESBACH,  GLENN  WARD.  A  resident  of  New 
Mexico.  The  author  of  numerous  volumes  of  verse, 
and  contributor  to  many  magazines. 

Defeat. 

Chains. 

DRISCOLL,   LOUISE.     Lives   in   Catskill,   N.   Y. 
Represented  in  most  of  the  leading  anthologies;  her 
first  volume  is  to  appear  shortly. 
God's  Pity. 
My  Garden  is  a  Pleasant  Place. 

FARRAR,  JOHN  CHIPMAN.  A  Yale  graduate,  now 
working  on  the  New  York  World.  Editor  of  an 
anthology  of  Yale  undergraduate  verse  and  author 
of  two  original  books. 

Songs  for  Parents. 

Wish. 

A  Comparison. 

Parenthood. 

FLEXNER,  HORTENSE.  Resides  in  Louisville.  A 
regular  contributor  to  Chicago  Poetry  and  other 
magazines. 

Sand. 

The  Drafted  Mountaineer  Salutes. 

GINSBERG,  LOUIS.    A  graduate  of  Rutgers  College, 
teaching  at  Woodbine,  N.  J. 
In  the  Hallway. 


253 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

HALL,  AMANDA  BENJAMIN.  Lives  at  Norwich, 
Conn.  Has  contributed  to  leading  magazines  and  is 
the  author  of  two  novels,  the  second  of  which  is  now 
in  press. 

Waif. 

The  Dancer  in  the  Shrine. 

Joy  0'  Living. 

HANLINE,  MAURICE  A.    A  Baltimorean. 
A  Song  of  Pierrot. 

HANLY,  ELIZABETH.    Lives  at  Caribou,  Me. 
Sixteen. 

HARDING,  D.  E.  P.  Mrs.  Harding  is  from  Cleve- 
land. 

The  Queen's  Shrift. 

HARE,  AMORY  (Mrs.  Arthur  B.  Cook).  A  Phila- 
delphian  who  has  contributed  nlany  poems  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly.  She  expects  to  publish  a  volume 
shortly. 

Today. 

"Shine!" 

By  the  Hearth. 

HENDERSON,  DANIEL.     Has  moved  from  Balti- 
more to  New  York,  where  he  is  connected  with  Mc- 
C lure's  Magazine.    Has  won  success  in  war  poetry 
and  published  "Life's  Minstrel." 
The  Poet's  Path. 


254 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

HERSEY,  MARIE  LOUISE.    A  Bostonian. 
Contrasts. 

HEYWARD,  DUBOSE.     A  young  business  man  of 
Charleston,  S.  C,  who  has  contributed  verse  and 
short  stories  to  magazines. 
An  Invocation. 

HILLMAN,   GORDON   MALHERBE.     Connected 
with  The  Boston  Transcript. 
The  Tankers. 

HOFFMAN,  PHOEBE.     A  Philadelphian  who  has 
contributed  to  various  poetry  magazines. 
The  Freight  Yards. 

HOLDEN,  RAYMOND  PECKHAM.    A  graduate  of 
Princeton,  now  in  New  York. 
February  Twenty-Second. 
Funeral. 

HOPKINS,  GERTRUDE  CORNWELL.    Associated 
with  the  New  York  Nation. 
Land  of  the  Free. 

HOYT,  HELEN.     Formerly  an  associate  editor  of 
Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse. 
Make  Believe. 
Gratitude. 

HUCKFIELD,  LEYLAND.  Of  English  birth,  now 
living  at  Rochester,  Minn.  Has  appeared  often  in 
the  special  magazines. 

The  Old  Gods  March. 


255 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

HUNTINGTON,  C.  A.    Resides  at  Lexington,  Mass. 
Snow. 

JENNINGS,  LESLIE  NELSON.  Lives  at  Ruther- 
ford, Cal.  Has  contributed  widely  to  many  sorts 
of  magazines. 

Largesse. 

JONES,  HOWARD  MUMFORD.  A  Professor  of 
English  in  the  University  of  Texas.  Author  of  the 
volume  "Gargoyles." 

A  Song  of  Butte. 

JONES,  RALPH  M.   A  clergyman  of  Chester,  Vt. 

Bed-time. 

JONES,  RUTH  LAMBERT.  A  resident  of  Haverhill, 
Mass.  Contributes  to  popular  magazines  and  news- 
papers. 

Echoes. 

KILMER,  JOYCE.  The  only  American  poet  to  fall 
in  the  war  under  the  colors  of  his  country.  A  loyal 
friend  and  contributor  to  C.  V.  from  the  first.  His 
collected  poems  have  had  the  success  deserved  by 
his  manly  democratic  spirit. 

The  Ashman. 

KIMBALL,  FRANCIS  T.   Wrote  us  from  New  York. 
Pier  6. 


256 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

LAIRD,  WILLIAM.  The  pen-name  of  a  Philadelphia 
poet  who  has  been  a  steady  contributor  to  C.  V. 
and  has  appeared  in  other  poetry  magazines.  Rep- 
resented in  Miss  Harriet  Monroe's  anthology  of  the 
new  poetry. 

The  Anchor. 

An  Apple  Eater  to  a  Coquette. 

A  Prayer. 

Westward. 

LINCOLN,  ELLIOTT  C.    Formerly  of  Washington 
State,  but  now  in  the  east.    Author  of  a  book. 
Mrs.  Senator  Jones. 

LONG,  HANIEL.  Teaching  English  at  the  Carnegie 
Institute,  Pittsburgh.  Has  won  notable  success  in 
magazine  verse. 

The  Day  that  Love  Came  Down  to  Me. 

McCALLIE,  MARGARET  E.    A  Georgian. 
Distance. 

McCLUSKEY,  KATHARINE  WISNER.    A  resident 
of  Arizona. 
Darkness. 

McGEE,  MARGARET  B.  A  resident  of  Colum- 
bus, 0. 

To  Dance! 

MAVITY,  NANCY  BARR.     Mrs.  Mavity  has  re- 
cently moved  from  New  York  to  the  west.    Con- 
tributor to  The  Bookman,  etc. 
The  Unforgiven. 

257 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

MAYSI,  KADRA.  The  pen-name  of  a  South  Can*, 
lina  writer. 

The  Taking  of  Bagdad. 

MIDDLETON,  SCUDDER.  An  editor  of  the  maga- 
zine Romance,  New  York.  Contributor  to  leading 
magazines  and  author  of  "Streets  and  Faces"  and 
"The  New  Day." 
The  Return. 
MITCHELL,  RUTH  COMFORT  (Mrs.  Young). 
Lives  at  Los  Gatos,  Cal.  Contributor  of  dramatic 
narratives  to  leading  magazines  and  author  of  a 
volume. 

The  Choosing. 
MOORE,  MARIANNE.    A  graduate  of  Bryn  Mawr 
who  lives  in  New  York  City. 
Masks. 
MORRIS,  KENNETH.    Professor  of  literature  at  the 
Theosophical  College,  Point  Loma,  Cal.    Has  pub- 
lished mainly  in  The  Theosophical  Path. 
Rondels  of  Lomaland. 
MORSELL,  MARY.   A  New  Yorker. 
Four  Walls. 

MORTON,  DAVID.  Has  recently  moved  from  Louis- 
ville to  Morristown,  N.  J.,  where  he  is  teaching. 
His  volume,  "Ships  in  Harbor,"  which  has  just  won  a 
prize  of  $500,  is  to  appear  shortly.  Probably  the 
best  known  younger  poet  in  the  field  of  the  sonnet. 

Beauty  Like  Yours. 

"Shipping  News." 

258 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

MURPHY,  CHARLES  R.  Formerly  of  Carmel,  CaL, 
now  at  Wellesley  Hills,  Mass.  Translator  of  a  vol- 
ume of  Verhaerer  under  the  title  "Songs  of  the  Sun- 
lit Hours." 

Stress  of  Snow. 

NEVIN,  HARDWICKE  MARMADUKE.     Son  of 
Mr.  Arthur  Nevin,  of  Lawrence,  Kan.,  the  famous 
composer.     Studied  at  Princeton,  was  wounded  in 
France  and  awarded  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 
A  Home. 

NICHOLL,  LOUISE  TOWNSEND.  On  the  staff  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post  and  now  also  Associate 
Editor  of  Contemporary  Verse.  Her  poems  here  in- 
cluded were  printed  before  she  joined  the  magazine. 
Is  planning  an  original  volume  of  verse. 

Revelation. 

Candle  Famine  in  Paris. 

NOVAK,  RUTHELE  (Mrs.  E.  W.).  American  by 
birth;  lives  at  Nashville,  Tenn. 

The  Man  at  the  Plow. 
A  Day  in  May. 

O'BRIEN,  EDWARD  J.  Formerly  of  South  Yar- 
mouth, Mass.,  but  abroad  until  recently.  Has 
brought  out  volumes  of  original  verse  and  edited 
collections  of  the  best  magazine  short  stories. 

Pulvis  Et  Umbra. 


259 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

O'CONOR,  NORREYS  JEPHSON.  A  Bostonian, 
author  of  original  volumes  and  translations  from  the 
Old  Irish. 

The  Bells  of  Erin. 

OLIVER,  JENNIE  HARRIS.    Lives  in  Oklahoma. 
The  Ruined  'Dobe. 

PATTON,  MARGARET  FRENCH.  A  North  Caro- 
linian. 

Comfort. 

PERCY,  WILLIAM  ALEXANDER.  Has  returned 
from  the  war  to  resume  the  practice  of  law  at  Green- 
ville, Miss.  A  contributor  to  leading  magazines  and 
author  of  "Sappho  in  Leukas." 

The  Soldier  Generation. 

PINDER,  FRANCES  DICKENSON.  Lives  in  Jack- 
sonville, Fla.   Has  appeared  in  Art  and  Life. 

Inland. 
Peace. 

PIPER,  EDWIN  FORD.  An  Iowan,  author  of 
"Barbed  Wire." 

Gee-up  Dar,  Mules. 

POTTER,  MARGIE.    Lives  in  Washington,  D.  C. 
Mist. 


260 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

RAVENEL,  BEATRICE  (Mrs.  Frank  G.).  A  resi- 
dent of  Charleston,  S.  C.  Contributor  of  poetry  to 
the  Atlantic  and  of  short  stories  to  Harper's  and 
The  Saturday  Evening  Post. 

To  You. 

The  Day  You  Went. 

In. 

Broomgrass. 

Certainty. 

RAYMUND,  BERNARD.     A  Chicagoan  who  has 
contributed  much  to  the  special  poetry  magazines. 
Kathleen. 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH.     Perhaps  the 
most  notable  of  living  American  women  in  the  field 
of  poetry. 
Not  I. 

ROBERTS,  MARY  ELEANOR.  A  Philadelphian, 
author  of  "Cloth  of  Frieze." 

The  Coquette  to  the  Apple-Eater. 

ROCHE,  JOHN  PIERRE.  Originally  of  Milwaukee. 
Was  active  in  soldiers'  magazines  at  the  front  dur- 
ing the  war. 

Life  as  a  Gage  You  Flung. 

ROOT,  E.  MERRILL.    A  graduate  of  Amherst,  resi- 
dent before  the  war  in  St.  Louis. 
My  Mother. 


261 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

SABEL,  MARX  G.    A  lawyer  in  Jacksonville,  Fla. 
Inviolate. 

SHEPARD,  ODELL.    Professor  at  Trinity  College, 
Hartford.    Author  of  "A  Lonely  Flute." 
The  Elm. 

SHUEY,  MARY  WILLIS.   Mrs.  Shuey  was  in  Florida 
at  our  last  advice.     Has   contributed  to  various 
poetry  magazines. 
Patchwork. 

SMITH,  MARION  COUTHOUY.    Lives  at  East  Or- 
ange, N.  J.,  and  has  published  a  volume  entitled 
"The  Final  Star." 
The  Waterfall. 

SPEYER,  LEONORA  (Mrs.  Edgar).  Born  at  Wash- 
ington, but  long  resident  in  England  as  the  wife  of 
Sir  Edgar  Speyer,  who  has  given  up  his  title  after 
settling  in  New  York.  Her  most  successful  poems 
have  appeared  in  C.  V.,  but  she  has  been  liberally 
represented  in  many  other  periodicals. 

Rendezvous. 

The  Naturalist  on  a  June  Sunday. 

Sekhmet,  the  Lion-Headed. 

Spring  Cowardice. 

STERN,  CAROLINE.    Lives  at  Greenville,  Miss. 
The  Bird. 

STEWART,  CLARE  D.    ^ives  in  Seattle. 
Crossing  on  the  Seattle  Ferry. 


262 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

TEASDALE,  SARA  (Mrs.  Ernst  Filsinger).  For- 
merly of  St.  Louis,  now  of  New  York.  The  best 
known  love  poet  in  this  country  today. 

Three  Songs  for  E. 
Gray  Eyes. 
Meadowlarks. 
The  Net. 

THOMSON,  0.  R.  HOWARD.  A  librarian  in  Wil- 
liamsport,  Pa.  Has  appeared  frequently  in  The 
New  York  Times  and  published  a  volume. 

Betrayal  and  Absolution. 

TRAPNELL,  EDNA  VALENTINE.  A  New  Yorker 
who  has  appeared  mainly  in  C.  V.,  but  has  also  won 
success  in  popular  magazines. 

TROTH,  JOHN  T.  Born  in  West  Chester,  Pa.,  and 
a  graduate  of  Haverford  College.  The  poem  here 
included  was  admired  by  Prof.  Gummere,  the  lead- 
ing authority  of  the  time  on  the  English  ballad. 
"Silent  Sam"  would  appear  to  have  left  the  deepest 
impression  of  anything  ever  printed  in  C.  V. 

The  Last  Speech  of  Silent  Sam. 

TROY,  DANIEL  W.  A  lawyer  in  Montgomery,  Ala. 
Formerly  a  student  at  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania. 

Won  by  Ear. 

263 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

UNTERMEYER,  LOUIS.  A  New  York  business 
man,  poet,  and  critic,  the  author  of  numerous  vol- 
umes too  widely  known  to  need  mention.  Con- 
tributor of  verse  to  leading  magazines  and  reviewer 
for  The  New  Republic. 
The  American. 

VAN  SLYKE,  BERENICE  K.   A  graduate  of  Welles- 
ley,  now  in  France  doing  relief  work.     Has  con- 
tributed to  the  Atlantic  and  Chicago  Poetry. 
I  Stood  at  Twilight. 
Home. 

VEDDER,  MIRIAM.  A  graduate  of  Wellesley;  now 
in  New  York. 

The  Watchman. 

WARING,  JOHN  M.    The  pen-name  of  a  poet  living 
near  Wilmington,  Del. 
The  Soul's  Goodbye. 

WARVELLE,  EFFIE  BANGS.    A  Chicagoan. 
Winter  Flowers. 

WATTLES,  WILLARD.  Teaches  at  the  University 
of  Kansas,  Lawrence,  Kan.  Contributor  to  poetry 
magazines  and  others,  author  of  "Lanterns  in 
Gethsemane." 

Silenced. 

Courage,  Mon  Ami  I 

Ha!  Ha! 


264 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

WELLES,  WINIFRED.  Resides  at  Norwich,  Conn. 
Has  contributed  to  magazines,  especially  the  North 
American  Review,  and  has  just  published  her  first 
volume,  "The  Hesitant  Heart." 

In  An  Old  House. 

Narcissus. 
After  Sorrow. 

WELSH,  ROBERT  GILBERT.  A  New  York  writer 
who  was  overseas  by  our  last  advice.  Contributor 
to  the  Century  and  to  Miss  Rittenhouse's  "Little 
Book  of  Modern  Verse," 

Gold-in-Gray. 

WHEELOCK,  JOHN  HALL.  Connected  with  the 
publishing  house  of  Scribner's,  New  York.  Author 
of  four  volumes,  the  last  of  which  is  entitled  "Dust 
and  Light."  Represented  in  practically  all  the  best 
magazines  and  anthologies. 

Return  After  Death. 

WIDDEMER,  MARGARET  (Mrs.  Robert  Haven 
Schauffler).  Formerly  of  Doylestown,  Pa.,  now  at 
Larchmont,  N.  Y.  Author  of  numerous  novels  and 
two  volumes  of  verse,  one  of  which  divided  th<*  prize 
for  the  best  book  of  poetry  appearing  in  1918. 

From  "Songs  for  a  Mask." 
Swanhild  Sings  to  the  Knight. 

265 


Biographical  Index  to  Poets  Represented 

WILKINSON,  MARGUERITE  (Mrs.  Henry  M.). 
Now  living  in  New  York.  Well  known  for  her 
services  to  poetry  as  critic  and  anthologist,  espe- 
cially in  her  volume  "New  Voices."  She  is  about 
to  publish  her  second  book  of  original  poems. 
Weather. 

WILLIAMS,  OSCAR  C.     Now  in  Brooklyn.     Has 
contributed  widely  to  magazines  for  a  poet  of  eight- 
een, and  is  planning  a  volume. 
Bubbles. 

WILSON,  JOHN  FRENCH.    A  graduate  of  Haver- 
ford  College,  now  practicing  law  in  Cleveland.    The 
sonnets  here  printed  were  among  the  most  widely 
quoted  poems  of  the  year  1919. 
Week-End  Sonnets. 

WOOD,  CLEMENT.  Born  in  Alabama,  now  teaching 
in  New  York.  Author  of  the  volumes  "Glad  of 
Earth"  and  "The  Earth  Turns  South."  Winner  of 
several  poetry  prizes  and  about  to  make  his  debut 
as  a  novelist. 

The  Poem. 

I  Would  not  Die  in  April. 

WOOD,  ELEANOR  DUNCAN.    Resides  in  the  south. 
Challenge. 

WYLIE,  ELINOR.    Lives  in  Washington,  D.  C. 
"Les  Lauriers  sont  Coupes." 


266 


